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By the author of “By Crooked Paths, 
in the Bone/' Eto., Etc. 


igaaifcri. 


7 TO 27 VaNdeWater S 
e: wToF^fQ' 




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87 Dick Sand; or, A Captain at Fifteen. 

By Jules Verne 20 

GS The Privateersman. Captain Marry at 20 
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;91 Barnaby Rudge. By Charles Dickens. 20 

92 Lord T..vnne’s Choice. By the Author 

of “l)ora Thome ” 10 

93 Anthony Ti’ollojpes Autobiography.. 20 

94 Little Dorrit. By Charles Dickens. .. 30 

95 The Fire Brigade. R. M. Ballantj-ne 10 

96 Erling the Bold. By R. M. Ballantyne 10 

97 All in a Garden Fair. Walter Besant.. 20 
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110 Under the Red Flag. By Miss Braddon 10 

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A BITTER RECKONING. 


BY THE AUTHOR OF 

" By Crooked Paths,” “ Bred in the Bone,” etc. 



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NEW YORK; 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 


17 TO 27 VANniT, WATER STREET. 






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I 


A BITTER RECKONING 


(JHAPTER 1. 

“ 1 KNOW how silly it is of me to fret over this separation of a 
few weeks, Jack; but I’m sutfering from that most feminine of all 
feminine ailments— a presentiment. 1 have a horrible dread that 
you will Dot come back to me just the same as you leave me.” 

Jack Dornton knew this was all very foolish. He loved pretty 
Ethel Mallet t very dearly; so, instead of putting his thought into 
words, he kissed the tearful face, and lovingly comforted her with 
vows of eternal constancy most fitting to the occasion. 

“You know 1 needn’t stay down there until the pictures are fin- 
ished,” he said presently, when he had succeeded in soothing her 
agitation. “As soon as 1 have the sketches well forward, 1 shall 
€ome back and complete the larger pictures from them at home; 
and, though 1 shall be working very hard, that will not prevent you 
from coming every day to watch my progress and cheer me up for 
an hour or so in the afternoon.” 

Ethel smiled — it was rather a pitiful attempt — and turned reso- 
lutely to the breakfast-table. 

“ It was good of you to think of coming to hieakfast with us, so 
that we might see the last of you before starting,” she said bravely, 
as she busied herself with the coffee-cups; and Jack felt thankful 
that the scene he had been dreading for the last few d :»ys was over. 

Mr. Mallett came down a tew moments later, and breakfast was 
got through with due decorum, in deference to “ papa’s dislike to 
emotion.” 

Shortl}^ after the meal, Jack was tramping down Holborn— the 
house he had left was in the neighborhood of Bloomsbury — his 
portmanteau in one hand and a portable easel in the other. 

He had been engaged to Ethel Mallett for two months, and they 
wpre to be married as soon as he could provide a suitable home for 
her. A fortnight after he had obtained the reluctant consent of Mr. 
Mallett to this arrangement, a certain Lord Summers, attracted, as 
he said, by two water-colors of Jack’s in a fashionable irallery, had 
found him out and ofliered him a liberal commission to execute a series 
of six pictures, the subjects to be selected from the immediate 
neighborhood of his lordship’s place in Exbridgeshire. Jack had 
tumped at the otter, seeing that it would enable him to place little 
Ethel in a home of her own months sooner than he had anticipated. 

So here he was, after a two hours’ run from Fenchurch Street, 
hard at wmrk in the woods of Mallingford, skillfully and rapidly 


4 


A BITTER RECKOIS'IXG. 


filling in the leading features of Mallingford House and its surround- 
ings. • 

While his fingers were thus busy, he was recalling the conversa- 
tion he had had with Lord Summers upon the place of his first 
subject. 

“ Would you wish me to begin with Summerfield?’’ Jack had 
asked, when taking his final instructions from his lordship. 

“No; 1 should like to be at Summerfield myself when you are 
there. 1 think you had better make Mallingford House your first 
subject. It is about ten miles from Summerfield, and you can 
work your way toward there. 1 shall be down by the last week m 
Jul}^ and hope to have the pleasure of showing you some hospi- 
tality.’^ 

Jack; bowed his thanks. 

“ You will be delighted with Mallingford,” his lordship went on, 
after a pause. “It is a noble place, and 1 have a rather peculiar 
interest in the property. The late owner. Sir Paul Mailing, was a 
most eccentric man, with a very exalted notion of his own impor- 
tance as head of the house. He had never married, and was mortally 
offended with his brother Geoff re}^ because he took unto himself a 
wife at the age of thirty-eight without first consulting him. Poor 
Paul! He was a great friend of mine; but I’m bound to confess 
that he was of a most unforgiving disposition. Would you believe 
it, Mr. Dornton? He was so unjust as to disinherit Geoffrey —the 
estate was not entailed, unfortunately — and leave the whole of his 
property to his only sister’s only child, Pauline Lufton. His will 
confirmed his reputation for eccentricity, for he made even her in- 
heritance conditional: first, upon her taking the name of Mailing — 
and her husband also, should she marry — and, secondly, upon her 
not marrying under the age of twent 3 ^-five without her guardian’s 
approval and consent. A very awkward thing for the guardian! 1 
am that not-to*be-envied person. So, j^ou see, should the young 
lady in question happen to faU in love with some poor beggar of a 
fellow, I could not consistently give my consent, and she would 
have to give up either her love or her position as owner of Malling- 
ford, one of the finest seats in the county.” 

“ In which case?” Jacksa’d interrogatively. 

“ In which case the disinherited brother would have his own. 
But 1 am glad to say that my charming ward will be twenty-five in 
September, and will then be in a position to please herself in her 
choice of a bust and— for which 1 am devoutly thankful, as it re- 
lieves me of a serious responsibility. ” 

“ 1 can quite understand that.” 

“ 1 was in hopes at first that I should not be called upon to exer- 
cise my guardianship at all, for, when Sir Paul died, Pauline was 
away with her father m Italy. He was a sad reprobate, and spent 
his time chiefly in low gambling-houses, leaving his motherless girl 
among all kinds of questionable people. 1 always think it was a 
mercy she did not come to any Harm. Well, as fate willed, this 
Lufton died just a month before Sir Paul, and, though we made 
every effort to find his daughter, we could obtain no tidings of her. 
We traced the father and daughter to Naples, where the former 
died; but after that we could hear nothing of her. We sent out 


A BITTER RECKONING. 


0 


agents, we advertised, we did everything we could. At last, after 
five moDihs ot fruitless inquiry, and just as we were losing heart, 
and- wondering whether we should not "begin to hunt up poor 
Geoffrey, she appeared suddenly at tny solicitors’ offices. She looked 
wretchedly ill, said she had been working her heart out as a teacher 
of English at a Spanish convent, and had only recently seen one of 
our advertisements. She was nineteen then— and that is nearly six 
years ago. Bless my heart,” exclaimed his lordship, as he looked at 
his watch, “ it is two o’clock, and I have kept you here with my 
twaddle a whole hour! I’m sure 1 beg your pardon, Mr. Dornton.” 

“Not at all,” Jack answered. “On the contrary, 1 was quite 
interested in the romance.” 

And now, as Jack Dornton stood in the shady wood, with the 
noonday sun making little patches of white here and there wherever 
it could pierce the thick foliage above, and with a buzzing ot in- 
sects in his ears, he was weaving all sorts of romahtic fancies con- 
cerning the owner ot all the beauty surrounding him. 

The long, low, irregular house, built of gleaming white stone, the 
vivid patches of color on the slopes of the terrace, the almost pain- 
ful brilliancy ot the fountains as they danced and glittered in the 
sunlight, made up a picture in which intensity of color was the pre- 
dominant feature. 

Jack had given a despairing sigh when he first came upon the 
house. 

“ If 1 paint that as it really is,” he thought, “ every one will ac- 
cuse me of ridiculous idealism. I must get shadow of some sort 
from somewhere;” and that was why he was painting his picture in 
a spot wdiere soft heavy foliage gave some relief to the brightness of 
the whole place. “ It looks well enough from here,” he muttered 
discontentedly; “ but it looks almost heartless with its self-assertive 
brilliancy of coloring and aggressive rigidity ot outline, when one 
first comes upon it. 1 shall have to call this picture ‘ A peep from 
31allingiord Woods,’ for there’s as much of wood as of anything 
else in it. Odd that the owner ot such a place as this should never 
liave married!” was his next thought. “Lord Summers says she 
is a beauty as well as an heiress. Perhaps she is in love with some 
poor beggar, as he said, and is waiting until she is twenty- five to lav" 
lierself and her fortune at the lucky fellow’s feet. By Jove, what 
a woman! That is the sort ot thing Ethel would do — my true- 
hearted, unselfish, loving little Ethel!” 

Jack looked very handsome as he stood with palette and brush in 
hand, his face lighted up with happy thoughts of his pretty and 
trusting sweetheart. He had bright blue eyes, well-formed features, 
and a short brown beard, whilst his shoulders were those of a mod- 
ern Hercules. He stood six feet high, and was proportionately built. 
Taken altogether, he was a very attractive young man in the eyes 
of the softer' sq^. 

From behind the bole of a large tree Jack Dornton was being nar- 
rowly scanned by a young lady, who seemed well pleased with the 
inspection. She watched him at work for some minutes with a de- 
cided look ot admiration in her eyes. She turned from her survey 
presently, and, stooping down, crept away slowly among the brush- 


6 A BITTER RECKONING. 

wood, making a detour with the evident intention of reaching the 
rpot again. 

In the meantime Jack grew hungry, and, not having made pro- 
vision against such an emergency, he did what most men woidd 
have done in similar circumstances — lighted his pipe and puffed 
away energetically at it. Looking round and stretching himself 
alter his spell of work, he noticed a small natural mound covered 
with sott velvety grass. The more he looked at this mound, the 
stronger became the temptation to lake ten minutes’ rest upon it. 
He yielded at last, and found the mound an excellent pillow. 

Before he had enjoyed two of the allotted ten minutes’ rest, his 
fvpen locket, containing a portrait of Ethel, dropped from his hand, 
liis pipe slipped from between his teeth, ana a myriad ot gnats 
buzzed and whizzed in happy freedom round his head. Jack Dorn- 
ton was fast asleep! 

At that moment a woman came gliding by in full view of the 
easel. She was a woman of surpassing loveliness, tall, stately, with 
a figure of voluptuous perfection, a mass of golden plaits coiled round 
and rdund her head, full melting brown ejms and ripe red lips, a skin 
rivaling the peach in its delicate coloring, and a carriage queenly in 
its every movement. Her dainty cambric gown, cunningly made to 

more express than hide her form,” trailed carelessly among the 
ivy-roots and brambles behind her. Her simple straw hat she car- 
ried in her hand, and her whole air suggested the pretty “ maiden 
meditation fancy free.” 

She gave a well- feigned start when she had come well in view of 
Jack’s easel. 

It was not pleasant to watch the swift change that c.ame over the 
beautiful face as she ii'.arked the vacant seat and thought herself 
alone. It revealed unmistakably the defects of her character as in- 
dicated in the slightly sensual under lip, the cruel little curves at the 
corners of the mouth, which were generally safely concealed beneath 
the pretty confiding smile that from long practice had become ha- 
bitual with her. 

Advancing cautiously, she glanced around, and soon discovered 
Jack’s whereabouts. She wmnt quickly to the easel, and critically 
examined the morning’s work. Turning aside, she remarked to 
herself, “ With such decided talent and such an appearance, he 
would be sure to succeed if he were properly taken up.” She then 
walked on tip-toe to Jack, and scrutinized him quite as critically as 
she had scrutinized his work, and evidently with as much approval. 

” He would be a pleasant enough medium povr passer le temps 
until the end of the week.” And, as the thought passed through 
her mind, her quick eye delected ihe open locket by his side. 

She looked carefully at the sleeper, and having assured herself of 
the soundness of his slumbers, w^ent down upon her knees by his 
side, the better to examine the portrait. 

She slartea visibly wdien her e.yes tell upon the sw^t face smiling 
at her from the tiny trinket. Slie rose quickly, and walked aw^ay 
a few yards. 

” So she is this landscape-painter’s * village maiden ’!” she mut- 
tered vindictively. ” Surely there is some fatality in his coming 
here! I can’t be mistaken ; it is the same insipid babyishly pretty 


.V BITTER KECKOXIKG. 


i 


lace tliat Lord Summers pointed out to me in the park the other da5\ 
And she loves this Apollo, does she? And perhaps he thinks he 
loves her. A\ell, we shall see what wx shall see!” 

There was a significant glitter in her fine eyes, and an instantan- 
eous tightening of the red lips seemed to tell of a hard cruel heart 
beneath the fair exterior. 

But the almost demoniacal expression of her face disappeared as if 
by magic when Jack rolled over on to his side and showed signs of 
waking. 

She had posed gracefully before the easel, and awaited him. 

1 believe I’ve been asleep,” he murmured drowsily, raising 
himself on one elbow, and feeling about instinctively for his pipe. 

Not finding it, he turned over lazily to prosecute his search on the 
other side, when his eyes fell upon the dazzling loveliness of the girl 
so earnestly regarding his picture; and in that first glimpse of 
Pauline Mailing Jack’s senses and aristocratic perceptions were alike 
roused. 

He lay still for an instant looking at her, afraid to move, lest this 
woodland nymph should be a dream, and vanish with his waking. 

The little flecks of sunlight were dancing about her as she stood 
in rapt attention before the unfinished picture, now bringing into 
prominence the exquisite symmetry of her form, now kissing the 
well-formed head and bringing into play the “ living gold ” of her 
luxuriant hair. 

Jack noted all this with a painter’s eye, and, springing to his feet, 
went toward his easel. 

” 1 beg your pardon for the liberty 1 have taken in examining 
your picture,” murmured the woodland nymph melodiously. ”1 
hope i did not disturb you; you seemed so tired! May 1 be allowed 
to continue my inspection?” 

Jack, hardly awake even yet, muttered something about ” too 
much honor.” 

“ You are Mr. Dornton, are you not?” she continued, still look- 
ing at the picture, and giving Jack time to ‘‘ pull himself together.” 
” Lord Summers told me he was going to ask you to make a pict- 
ure of my house. ” 

It ’was Miss Mailing then, and no woodland nymph, after all. 
Jack felt disappointed, though he could not tell w’hy. 

“ 1 suppose you w ill remain here for some days. May I offer you 
a little hospitality during your stay? The village inns are, 1 believe, 
wretchedly uncomfortable, and I should not like a friend of my 
guardian’s to be driven to their shelter while 1 am at home. We are 
two lonely women just now, and but dull company, 1 fear; but w^e 
will do our best to make you comfortable for this w^eek at least. 
Next week 1 am off again until the end of the season, and shall have 
to leave you to the mercies of the servants, i came dowm only for 
a peep'at my flowers, now in their pride. Say you w ill come.’’ 

” Thank you very much,” Jack began hesitatingly; “ but 1 did 
not anticipate — in fact, 1 made no preparation — ” 

“ Is that the only difficulty?” she interrupted gently. “Pray 
don’t let that stand in the way. Mrs. Sefton and 1 will shut our 
eyes to the enormity of a morning coat at dinner, and will promise 
to think no less of you on that account; so w^e shall expect you. 


8 


A BITTER RECK0XIXC4. 


'W’e dine at half past seven when en famiUe, so that we may have an 
hour or two of these lovely summer evenings in the gardens. Until 
then, au revoir 

Jack raised his soft felt hat, and watched her graceful figure as 
she glided away down the dim leafy vista of the wood. He wished 
that she had stayed longer, that he might still be looking into her 
glorious eyes, wiitching the ever-changing lights that came and went 
as rapidly as scudding clouds across a summer sky. When at last a 
curve in the path hid her from view he turned again to his work 
with a heavy sigh, wishing it were already half past seven. 


. CHAI’TER 11. 

“ Kow you are to consider yourself quite chez vans, Mr. Dornton,” 
Miss Mailing said, as she rose from table. “ Stay and meditate here 
in solitude, or come and smoke a cigar in our company on the ter- 
race. as suits your inclination. I always like my visitors to make 
themselves happy in their own way.” 

So Jack, preferring society to solitude, smoked his after-dinner 
cigar on the terrace, or rather Ire began it, but very soon threw it 
away, the better to continue a conversation that Miss Mailing pur- 
posely led into artistic channels. 

On the first night she did not talk much of herself— in fact, she 
seldom did. . It was her habit to repose in graceful, luxurious in- 
dolence, and listen intelligently to others, now and again filling up 
a gap, or, when the conversational ball showed signs of stopping, 
setting it rolling again by a short, well-directed remark, and expres- 
sing her interest m the subject under discussion more by a liberal 
use of her eloquent eyes and brows than by speech. 

One of her warmest admirers observed of her that, though she did 
not talk much, no one, on the other hand, could accuse her of talk- 
ing folly. And this habit of silence was due more to indolence than 
inability. IMiss Mailing, when once roused to interest, could dis- 
tance most women in her grasp of a subject and her power of putting 
her ideas into forcible language. 

Jack was charmed by her soft, womanly reticence, and flattered 
by her marked deference to his opinion in all matters. 

” Of course, it is not personal deference to my views, but her tacit 
admission of the mental superiority of man over woman,” this Solon 
of twenty-five remarked to liirnself. 

The moon came out by and by, throwing from behind a curtain 
of lender gray clouds a soft, silvery, shimmering light over the 
landscape. 

After Mrs. Sefton had gone indoors, Pauline led the conversation 
in a manner that quite entranced her companion. The witchery of 
the evening, the beauty of the woman, and the spell of her fascina- 
tions wrought upon Jack’s impressionable nature, and his dreams 
that night were of lovely women with golden hair and liquid brown 
eyes. 

A week later. Jack Dornton stood at the break fast- room window, 
apparently absorbed in the calm, radiant beauty of the scene before 


A BITTER RECKONING. 9 

him; yet, as he stood there outwardly calm, his breast was torn with 
conflicting passions. 

Pauline Mailing was returning to town by the midday train, and 
the pain that her proposed departure had caused him had also 
opened his eyes to the hateful truth that he had been unfaithful to 
his little Eihers memory in thought, if not in word. 

“ What a blind foH)l 1 have been,” he told himself, wrathfully, 
” to stay here day after day, and not see my own danger! Miss 
Mailing has been very kind and gentle; but 1 dare say she looks 
upon me as belonging to a very interior class to her own; and 1, to 
show my gratitude, must return her womanly kindness b}" forget- 
ting the distance between us, and presuming to fall in love with 
her! Besotted idiot! Apart from my supreme conceit with regard 
to Miss Mailing, 1 have behaved shamefully to Ethel,” he went on; 
and a flush of self-condemnation crept over his handsome face. 
” I’ve been away from her a whole week, and only one short note 
have i sent her. I’m an awful brute!” 

lie seated himself at the writing-table in the window, seized a 
pen and began : 

” My darling Ethel — ’’ 

. Then he stopped and nibbled the pen-noider, as If in expectation 
of receiving inspiration from the act. Before he bad quite made up 
his mind as to the wording of his overdue love-letter he heard a 
rustle at the door, and Miss Mailing entered in her elegant traveling 
costume. 

It was all very well for Jack to propound platitudes when he w^as 
alone, but it was not quite another thing to act up to them in the 
presence of this golden-haireii siren. She was in a perfectly irre- 
sistible mood to-day; lier laughter was gone, and she w’as tender, 
sentimental, and arch by turns. 

‘/How shall 1 miss your pleasant little morning chats, Mr. Dorn- 
toh ’’—with a gentle sigh — ‘‘ our happy sketching expeditions, and 
our delightful evenings!” 

‘‘You can not miss them as 1 shall,” Jack returned. 

“You think not?” raising her eyes slowly to liis and dropping 
her voice mournfully. “ That shows how little you know and ap- 
preciate your gain in possessing the hearty love and esteem of a few 
true friends, instead of the monotonous adulation of a horde of mere 
fashionable acquaintances. Y"ou can not understand, because 5 "ou 
have never experienced it, how the emptiness of our lives sometimes 
palls upon us butterflies; how it depresses us, and what w^e would 
give at such times to have a real object in life; how we long for the 
aflection of one disinterested creature!” 

Here Jack would have precipitated himself bodily into the yawn- 
ing chasm she had so conveniently opened for him, but for the 
providential entrance of Mrs. Sefton, who proceeded to dispense the 
comforts of the breakfast- table in her own inimitable manner. !No 
one ate much, and the carriage was at the door before the meal was 
properly over. 

“ Good-by, Mr. Dointon,” said Pauline, as she stood with one 
dainty toot upon the step. “ 1 shall hope to find you here when 1 
return; and I fear,” she continued, again lowering her voice danger- 


10 


A BITTER RECKONI^^G. 

ously, “ I sliall not be able to endure much of Ijondon's vapid so- 
ciet}'^ after tlie intellectual intercourse we have enjoyed lately. I 
shall be back in a fortnight. Il'ou will not forget mein that time?” 

Forget her! As Jack turned into the house, after watching the 
carriage clown the drive, his head and heart were on fire with the 
memory of her last lingering look, and the blood danced in his 
fingers as he recalled the warm, clinging pressure of her hand at 
parting. 

” 1 think 1 must be mad when she is near me, for somehow 1 al- 
w^ays manage to believe in the possibility of her love for me when 
in her presence,” he muttered, remorsefully. “And, if she did love 
me, wdiat then? Could I be such a brute ts to throw Ethel over? 
My sweet, pure little Ethel, it would break her heart! 1 must get 
rid of this folly. ITl finish Ethel’s letter at once, and send it off by 
the morning post. ITl write a long, loving letter to the poor little 
girl; it will do me as much good to write it as it will her to receive 
it. Confound it! Where is the one 1 began gone to? I’m sure 1 
left it here in the portfolio!” 

But it was not to be found. Vexed at bis loss he began another. 
This time he commenced with “ My dear Ethel,” andlhen, before 
proceeding further, he made a close "examination of the beautifullj’- 
executed address and crest on the paper. 

The crest of “ Mallyngs ” — as the name was originally spelled — a 
tiger’s head and front paws in repose, with the motto, “ Let the 
sleeping lie.” particularly interested him. He had stoocl for many 
a minute during the past week in front of one of these emblems of 
the family circle— fierce, ungovernable passion — and pondered the 
probable events that had caused it to be bestowed on them as their 
badge. 

The crest on the backs of the chairs in the hall especially pleased 
him. They were very beautiful specimens of oak-carving, and 
formed the extreme point of the high backs. The carver had caught 
to a marvel the combination of intense indolence, softness, and 
dormant power which such a subject should express, and Jack had 
even gone the length of fancying a likeness between the beautiful, 
cruel, sleeping beasts and the present representatives of the race 
they typified. 

‘^1 wonder why she has never married?” he mused. “ I wonder 
if mine is the true reason, and there really is some poor beggar in 
the background awaiting her twenty-fifty birthday? 1 shall have 
a chance of finding out if I accept her invitation for the partridge- 
shooting in September, for Lord Summers told me she would be 
twenty-five in that month. Ought 1, in justice to Ethel, to place 
myself in the way of such temptation? Bosh! 1 must be a weak 
fool indeed if 1 can not live in the society of a beautiful w'oman 
without making an ass of myself 1 Besides if I come and see tor 
myself that she is really ‘ gone ’ on some lucky fellow, it will be 
the most complete cure 1 could find tor my own folly.’* 

But Jack knew this to be false reasoning; nevertheless he would 
not listen to conscience, and, with a gloomy brow and tightly com- 
pressed lips, sat glaring moodily at the blank sheet of paper before 
him, looking very unlike the honesi, heaity Jack Dornton who but 
a short week ago bade good-by to his sweetheart in Bloomsbury. 


A BITTER RECKOXlJ^sG. 11 

“ Wi]! you tnke your lunclieon in here, sir? It will seem less 
lonely thairin the dining-room, 1 Ihink.” 

Jack looked up in surprise at the housekeeper. 

is it luncheon-time?’' 

“ It is ju^^t on two o'clock, sir." 

1 mnsi have been sittins: here nearly three hours. 1 don't mind 
where 1 lunch, IVlrs. Perkins." 

‘‘ Then I’ll put it in here, sir; it's brighter and more cheerful 
than the dining-room.'’ 

Mrs. Perkins walked to a sideboard and flicked away an imagi- 
nary speck of dust. 

1 can not get those girls to be thorough in their dusting." siie 
observed, apologelically ; then, in a more conversational tone she 
went on: Fine place, Mallingford Park, isn’t it, sir?— ihoimh not 
kept up as it used to be in Sir Paul’s time. A big place like this 
warns a master — that’s certain!" 

Jack resigned himself to the inevitable. 

" Were you here in Sir Paul's time?" he asked, more because the 
old lady wanted to talk than from any interest he took in the 
matter. 

‘‘ Bless you, sir, I’ve been a servant in this house for turned fifty 
years! 1 began as under-housemaid at sixteen, and here I’ve been 
ever since; so I’m what you may call an old servant." 

“ Yea, indeed!" Jack agreed, politely. 

“ And, like most old servants, I’ve seen many changes in mv 
time." 

‘‘No doubt." 

Then there was a pause; and, as the old lady showed no sign of 
going. Jack forced the interest he did not feel, and asked a ques- 
tion. 

"Of course you remember Miss Mailing’s mother? She must 
have been a beautiful woman." 

" Sometimes she was and sometimes she wasn’t. She was hand- 
some enough natuuilly; but she had such an awful temper that it 
quite disugured her at times. I’ve known her to sulk about the 
house for a month at a time because her brother, the late Sir Paul, 
had refused her some trifling thing. We were quite relieved when 
she got married, and went away on the Continent with her hus- 
band. You see she was many years younger than her brothers. Sir 
Paul and the present baronet. Sir Geoffrey, and was a bit spoiled in 
consequence — though there is an old saying in the family that u 
Mailing’s daughter is alwa3^s a fiend, asking your pardon tor the 
word, sir; so it’s lucky Miss Pauline is only a Mailing b}'’ adoption." 

" Then you think she has escaped the failing usual to the ladies 
of the family?" 

Mrs. Perkins gave Jack a very sharp glance as he put this ques- 
tion, and answered, cautiously: 

" 1 should not like to give an opinion of my mistress's disposition. 
It would be very bad taste on my part, sir. Miss Mailing, during 
the six years she has been mistress here, has been everything one 
could desire." 

Jack smiled under his mustache. 

"1 beg your pardon," he said, politely. "1 did not wish to 


1*2 


A BITTER RECKONING. 


betra.y you into disrespect for Miss Mailing. IMy question was the 
natural outcome of j^our remark as to Miss Mailing’s being only a 
Mailing by adoption.” 

The housekeeper’s face denied. 

” To be suie, sir; and that takes me back to what 1 was saying. 
Miss Pauline’s mother went away on the Continent with hei hus- 
band directly after they were married, and roamed about for years 
from one country to another with him; she never came home again, 
poor dear! She died when Miss Pauline '\as fifteen years old; and 
then Sir Paul was anxious to have the child with him in England, 
us be had made her his heiress, in consequence of the other brother, 
Geoffrey, having married without his consent. But Major Lufton 
would not part with his daughter, and refused even to let her come 
on a visit; so we none of us ever saw Miss Panikie until she came 
here, a grown woman, to take her place as mistress of Mailing- 
ford.” 

” 1 suppose you knew her at once by her likeness to her mother?” 

Strange to say, w^e didn’t, sir! To be sure she Was very ill, tor 
her father had been dead six months befoie she heard a word about 
being heiress to this property, and all that lime, to keep herself 
from starving, she had been slaving in some Spanish convent. But. 
even as she recovered her looks we w^atched in vain lor something 
in the voice or the expression of the face that should remind us of 
her mother. There are the same beautiful hair and eyes, and there 
the likeness ends.” 

” Do you say she never knew about her heiress-ship until after her 
father’s death?” 

‘‘ Yes, sir. She says he w'ould not tell her because he was afraid 
she might be tempted to leave him. 1 believe they w^ere in dreadful 
straits sometimes. The major gambled away his quarterly allow^- 
ance as soon as he received it, and I’m afraid they were often hard- 
driven for a meal. ” 

” It must have been a wonderful change for her when she came 
here?” 

” It was indeed, sir— so great that she can never to this day bear 
to recall that dreadful time, and refuses to talk about it to any one. 
She sa 3^8 it was quite bad enough while it lasted, and she does not 
wish it to be immortalized by constant repetition.” 

Then, having said all she wished to say for the present, Mrs. 
Perkins looked at the clock, and, expressing surprise at the late 
ne>)S of the hour, hurried away to get Jack’s luncheon. 


CHAPTER 111. 

Ethel Mallet knelt on a chair, her bonny face pressing closely 
against the window-pane. The room being on the second fioor, it 
was only by so doing that she could see the steps that led up to the 
front door. It was a quarter past eight, and she was watching 
anxiousl 3 \ as she had done for several mornings past, for the coming 
of the postman. She left her position presently, and bustled about, 
putting little finishing touches to the breakfast-table, setting a vase 
of roses close by her father’s plate, putting a few sprigs of green 


A BITTER RECKOlSriNG. 


13 


round the butter, refolding the sermettes, and arranging the cups 
and saucers so as to hide an ugly coffee-stain ot the previous day. 

“ It is hard on poor dear dad to have to put up with these petty 
inconveniences,” she said, affectionately, as she laid the morning 
newspaper next the roses, and looked to see if she could do anything 
further to beautify the unlovely lodging-house breakfast-table. 
“ 1 know the sight of a stain on the table-cloth takes away his ap- 
petite. With the very next few shillings 1 make by ray copying 
ITl buy a couple of table-cloths, and then we can have an extra one 
without asking Mrs. Philpott for it and risking black looks for the 
rest of the week. Oh, here you are, papa! 1 thought you were 
going to be late — and it is your Kensington day, too. An, there’s 
the postman! 1 wonder if he has a letter for me? I think lie must 
have to day— don’t you, dear? Isn’t it strange that Jack has written 
only once in a whole week?” 

” Young fellows always find plenty of occupation in the country; 
you must not worry about it, my child.” This remark was ratlier 
uncalled for, as Ethel, the whole week through, had scrupulously 
avoided mentioning the subject of Jack’s neglect, bearincr in mind 
her father’s dislike to worry in all shape and form. “ The country 
round Mallingford is particularly attractive, and 1 can quite under 
stand that Jack is feasting his soul on its beauties.” 

‘‘Oh, papa, do you know Mallingford? You never said so be- 
fore!” — and Ethel was just about to launch out into a string of ques- 
tions, when her thoughts were diverted by the appearance of the 
servant with the fish for breakfast, and a lei ter. 

‘‘ For me, and from Jack!” she exclaimed, breathlessly; but she 
did not attempt to read it until she had attended to every little want 
ot her father’s, and seen him comfortably settled for his morning’s 
glance over the leaders in the newspaper. 

Then she took up the letter and began reading it. As she read, 
the sweet anticipation of pleasure faded slowly from her face, and 
she laid the epistle down, looking perplexed and troubled. She 
went on quietly eating— or pretending to eat — her breakfast, filled 
her father’s cup when he pushed it toward her, and resolutely kept 
silence until he had laid down his newspaper, and caught her wist- 
ful look. 

Mr. Mallett was a decidedly selfish man, irritable under small an- 
noyances, and avoiding them by all possible means; but he loved his 
bright-eyed girl very dearly. It was much against his will that he 
had been cajoled into consenting to the engagement between his 
daughter and Jack Dornton, having his own private reasons for look- 
ing upon the match as unsuitable in many ways. But Ethel had 
fallen in love with the handsome young artist, who had so gener- 
ously undertaken the supervision of the whole of her father’s pupils 
at a time when he had been confined to the house by a touch of 
bronchitis; so Mr. Mallett accepted the inevitable gracefully, and— 
more to avoid the sight of his daughter’s grief than from any more 
sufficient cause— agreed to receive Jack as his future son-in-law. 
As he looked across the breakfast-table this morning, and noted the 
sad curve of Ethel’s lips, the pathetic glance ot her eyes, and her 
generally subdued air, he felt angry with Jack, thoroughly angry, 


14 


A BITTER RECKOKIIsG. 


knowing that it must be his letter that had clouded her bright face. 
But he did not show his annoyance at once. 

“ Well, what are you waiting to say?” 

I don’t quite know; Jack has written a nice, long letter, and 
yet 1 am disappointed. I’m never satisAed: am 1, dad? He tells 
me here that he’s very lonely, and a line or two lower down he says 
that Miss Mailing, ot whom he gave such a glowing description in 
his first note, has left for London. L know I’m a narrow- minded, 
jealous little idiot; but 1 can’t help fancying that it’s more her ab- 
sence than mine that makes him lonely. As if 1 did not know Jack 
to be one of the most honorable men in the world! Please call me 
a few hard names, dad, and make me ashamed of myself.” 

But Mr. Mallett did nothing of the sort. 

” 1 think it extremely bad taste on Jack’s part to fill his letters to 
you with descriptions of another woman’s beauty.” 

” Now, there you are wrong I It’s just that that satisfies me as 
to Jack’s good faith. Yes, you may shrug your shoulders as high 
as you like; but, if there was one scrap of unfairness to me in his 
admiration for Miss Mailing, he would not write so openly about it. 
It was only my nonsense about being jealous, you know.” 

” You are a veritable little bee, sucking the honey and leaving the 
poison. *1’11 not say one word against your hero, m}^ dear. But 1 
don’t like to hear of any slight being put upon you. You know 1 
don’t think him worthy ot my little girl.” 

“You conceited old dad,” Ethel said, with a smile, “ to think 
your girl better than any one else’s! Why, Jack is much too good 
lor me! Even you admit he’s clever.” 

“ Granted. But who is he? He has a stiaight nose and a good 
pair of shoulders; but what was his grandfather? Have you ever 
asked him?” 

“ Papa! What an extraordinary question that would be. for me 
to ask him I 1 dare say his grandfather was as good a man as mine. ” 

“ My dear, your grandfather was one of the oldest commoners in 
England. The Mailings of Mallingford hold themselves among the 
best people in Exbridgeshire.” 

Ethel looked at her father as if she feared his reason had given 
way. 

“ 1 dare say you are very astonished; you will be, naturally. You 
have always known me as a hard-'working drawing-master, and ot 
course concluded 1 had never been anything else. My dear, that 
Mallingford Park, of which Jack writes so enthusiastically, is mine 
by all just laws of succession. But my elder brother, the late 
owner, cut me oft witli a shilling, as people say, because 1 annoyed 
him about a trifling matter, and left the whole property to my niece, 
your cousin, Pauline Lufton.” 

“ And 1 am eighteen, and this is the first word 1 have ever heard 
of it!” 

“Yes, and most likely the last, for it is a subject 1 don’t care to 
talk about. To dwell continually on what might have been wmuld 
only make us discontented with what is. 1 don’t think 1 should 
have spoken ot it now it 1 had not felt extremely annoyed with Jack 
for his ungentlemanlike neglect during the past week. You are as 


A BITTER RECKONING. 15 

well-born as— perhaps better than— this cousin of yours of whom he 
raves, and 1 will not allow him to slight you in any way.*’ 

“ Daddy, will you let me manage this matter m3^selt? You have 
so surprised me by what you liave just said that 1 am almost be- 
wildered, and can hardly think of anything else. But 1 am sure 
that I am too self -conceited to let Jack really slight me. If 1 
thought he wanted me to give him his freedom, 1 would do it at 
once. 1 think it would almost break my heart, but 1 would do it. 
1 would not bestow myself where 1 was lightly thought of.” 

” Heaven bless my child! 1 can trust you to support the family 
reputation for self-respect; and, Ethel, if^you are writing to Jack 
to-day, don’t touch on that subject. 1 have reasons for not wishing 
him to know anything about the matter until 1 tell him myself.” 

“ Very well, papa.” 

But Ethel looked disappointed. She handed her father his hat 
and gloves, and kissed her hand to him from the window as he 
turned the corner of the street, and then went back to her letter. 
She read it through more than once, her face wearing a thoughtful 
expression. Then she sat down with loosely clasped hands, think- 
ing over the letter even when she had returned it to her pocket. 

“lam sure of it— he loves this Miss Mailing! Papa did not call 
her by that name. 1 forget now what he called her; but it was not 
Mailing. I thought my dislike to parting with Jack was all non- 
sensical fancy at the time; but I know now it was a real forewarning 
of this sorrow. He will never come back just the same as he went, 
even if he gets over this fancy for her. Jack— dear old Jack — why 
—why did you speak of your love for me until you were quite — 
quite certain you could never care for any one else? Oh, Jack, I 
can’t let you go, dear!” 

The tears were coming; she pressed her face more closely against 
the dingy cushions of the couch, and choked back the sobs. There 
was a different look on her face when she raised it again. 

“ If it is as 1 think— if he is really f alling in love with this beauti- 
ful woman— 1 shall release him very quickly froni his engagement 
to me. 1 should not like him to blame himself in any way tor his 
conduct toward me; 1 would rather he should think me heartless 
and fickle than that he should secretly pity me in his heart. 1 do 
not want his pity.” 

She sat rigidly upright for a moment, with her lips firmly set and 
a bright, hard look in her pretty gray eyes; then suddenly the de- 
termination faded from her face, and with a heart-broken little cry 
she threw herself once more upon the cushions. 

“ Oh, Jack, how could you, when 1 love j’ou so very dearly?” 


CHAPTER IV. 

BiVBETTE’s arms and back ached almost beyond endurance, yet 
the brush continued to play over Pauline Mailing’s hair as it hung 
in luxuriant profusion down her back. 

Pauline was deep in thought, for the Duke of Bennoir had just 
sent her the exquisite bunch of roses she held in her hand, with the 
little note lying open on the table, and she was making up her 


16 


A BITTER RECKOisi:s^rT. 


mind as to whether she should accept or reject the offer she knew 
he would make when he called by and by. She had intended that 
he should bring matters to a climax at once when she danced with 
him on the previous night, and she was now smiling to herself in 
lazy enjoyment as she saw liow^ exactly her wishes were coming to 
pass. Babette, her French maid, caught the reflection of the smile 
in the glass, and wondered what mischief was on foot. The smile 
of gratified vanity was still on Miss Mailing’s face as she asked: 

Did 1 look really well last night, Babette?” 

” Mademoiselle knows she always looks well; but last night she 
was hkn hien, cliamiant^!'' exclaimed Babette, theatrically, seiz- 
ing the opportunity to rest her tired arms tor a moment, by clasping 
her hands to give point to her admiration. 

” Yes, 1 think that last dress of Rosalie’s was a success. 1 can 
still afford to give the debiitanUs a start when I choose to make my- 
self pleasant.” 

“ Mademoiselle is irresistible when she chooses,” murmured the 
Frenchwoman; and for a while the brushing went on uninterrupt- 
edly. 

Miss Mailing again relapsed into deep thought. 

” If 1 could only be sure of the past remaining ihe past, if 1 were 
only certain that ugly tacts would not turn up unexpectedly to face 
me, 1 would marry this poor creature with a title — 1 w^ould, if only 
to save me from myself. Surely, after six years of safety and pros- 
perity, 1 am never going to be such an utter idiot as to risk loss of 
everything, because this poor painter is good-looking and charm- 
ingly candid! Have I never met a man before who combined hon- 
orable feelings and good looks, that 1 go down at once, surrender 
before the first shot is fired, to this young man with blue eyes and 
a bright smile? I suppose this is w^hat goody-goody people would 
call ‘ swift retribution.’ They w^ould declare triumphantly that my 
sin had brought its own punishment. I hate myself for my weak- 
ness! Only ten days ago 1 began this flirtation for my own amuse- 
ment and to annoy that big-eyed, pale-faced child, to give her a few 
unhappy hours as a set-off against the perpetual anxiety her mere 
existence causes me, and, before 1 am certain that either of these 
purposes is accomplished, 1 waKe up to the humiliating know;^edge 
that 1 am caught in my own trap, that for the first time in my life 
I have fallen in love! Ye gods — fallen in love!” 

She burst into a shout of scornful laughter, so startling Babette 
that the ivory-backed brush flew out of her hand, and she stood 
with round eyes and open mouth regarding her mistress’s face in 
the glass. 

” hat is the matter with you? Why are you staling at me like 
that?” 

By an effort Babette recovered her usual subdued, respectful ex- 
pression. 

” 1 feared mademoiselle was not well,” she murmured, apolo- 
getically. 

” Nonsense! Go on with your brushing, and do not take notice 
of what does not concern you.” 

” She is a very cat!” Babette said, confidentially, to tne brush, as 


A BITTER RECKOXIXG. IT 

Bhe picked it up. “ 1 should like to know what wickedness she is 
planning now.’' 

“ Perhaps it is not to be wondered at, after all,” Pauline mused. 
‘‘He is so different from the men one usually meets— so honestly 
simple, so bright and true, so sensitively honorable. With most 
men 1 know the word ‘ honor ’ merms^ paying their gambling-debts 
on settling-day, and the meaning of the words ‘ truth ’ and ‘ faith ’ 
is lost in the mists of ‘ long ago.’ It 1 had led on any of my aris 
tocratic admirers as 1 did him last week, they would have forsworn 
wife or sweetheart a dozen times over in my favor before now. But 
his honor is of a tougher quality. 1 believe he would marry that 
chit in spite of me it the release did not come from her. It shall! 
If lean not have him, she never shall! On that one point my 
mind is fully made up!” 

“Mademoiselle wiirtorgive me,” interrupted Babette, deprecat- 
ingly, “ but Monsieur le Due was to be here by one. It is already 
that hour but a quarter.” 

“ Of course; 1 had forgotten. Twist up my hair negligently. 
No stiffness, Babette! I hate my hair to look dressed so early. 1 
will wear that Nile green robe; it makes me look pale and subdued, 
if anything can. Quick; there is his knock! Now to give him his 
conge gracefully. How surprised he will be at my refusal!” 

Babette shook her fist at the graceful form as the door closed. 

“ For two hours 1 have stood here, brush, brush, brush, and she 
has never said, ‘ Rest a moment; you must be tired.’ She does not 
think 1 am a woman at all ; she looks upon me as a machine in- 
vented for her pleasure. Take care, my proud, selfish, beautiful 
madame, that the machine does not crush your pretty, soft body!” 
****** * 

Pauline had not much soul, and she did not really care much for 
music as music; but she liked the pleasant, soothing effect it had 
upon her. So she went to the opera two or three times a week, and 
in the intervals whispered scandal, ate ices, drank coffee, or dozed 
gracefully behind the curtains of her box. This evening Mis. Sef- 
ton and she were scarcely settled in their seats before Lord Summer's 
begged admission. 

The good-natured old gentleman looked rather worried, as he 
took the chair behind Pauline and exchanged civilities with both 
ladies. Discreet Mrs. .Seftem was always intensely interested in the 
music during the visits of Pauline’s friends to her box, so her pres- 
ence could hardly be called a hinderance to confidential intercourse 
between Pauline and her guardian. 

“ 1 have bad a visit from Bennoir this afternoon, Pauline,” his 
lordship began. “ The poor boy is terribly upset by your refusal.’^ 

“He will get over it.” 

“No doubt he will by and by. But in the meantime he has sent 
me as his embassador. He begs through me that you will try to 
reconsider your decision of this morning. He fancies that perhaps 
his rashness has ruined his chance, and thinks he might have had a 
better chance it he had waited longer. Is it so?” 

Pauline smiled a slow, satisfied smile as she answered: 

“ On the contrary, 1 forced the matter on. 1 knew the poor boy 
meant to propose to me — he wearied me beyond description by 


18 


A BiTTKK RECKOXl^sG. 


dogeiiif]: my steps so persistenlly— so 1 allowed him the opportunity 
ho Bought, and dismissed him.” 

“ But, my dear girl, have you no heart at all? To my knowledge 
this is the seventh most satisfactory offer you have refused. 1 dare 
say you have had quite as man 3 ^ of which 1 have heard nothing. 
1 begin to think you are heartless.” 

“ Perhaps you are right,” she said, indifferently. “But you 
must allow there are two sides to the question. On the one hand, 
3 "ou ask why 1 do not marry. 1 answer your question by asking, 
on the other, ‘ Why should 1 marry?’ 1 do not love these men who 
propose 10 me. 1 am my own mistress; 1 have everything 1 wish 
for — or nearly so— and 1 am happy as 1 am. Now can you answer 
my question: * Why should 1 marry?* ’* 

“ Well, I could give you some reasons;^ but I’m afraid they 
would sound very worldly-minded to you. 'Do you know, people 
are beginning to make remarks about your repeated refusals. They 
say — ” 

“ What do they say, my lord?” she asked, turning quickly on 
her chair and looking him straight in the face. ‘‘ What evil do they 
dare say of me?” 

She put the question abruptly, and in a manner that asserted her 
right to an instant answer; and her eyes flashed as she waited for 
him to speak. 

Lord Summers looked at her in astonishment too great for words. 
Pauline, perceiving her mistake, quickly recovered herself. 

” Won’t you tell me what these scandal mongers sa}^ of me?” she 
asked, in her usual low tone, as she resumed her indolent attitude. 

” \V hat a revelation!*’ passed through his lordship’s mind as he 
answered. “ You absolutely startled me. 1 never saw you so im- 
petuous on any subject before. My dear, they say no evil of you. 
How could they?” 

“ True; how could they?” with a suppressed sigh of relief. 

“ What they insinuate is that you are wailing until you can 
choose your husband irrespective of any one's permission; and 1 
wanted to assure you that 1 should not withhold my consent if it 
were so. If you have really lost your heart to some one not quite 
in your own rank of life, do not fear that 1 shall interfere with 
your choice.” 

“ You must be very anxious indeed to get me married, since you 
make even that concession. ” There w^as a touch of bitterness in her 
voice, and she kept her eyes fixed on the stage. 

“ My dear child, why will you misunderstand my motives!” lie 
glanced at Mrs. Sefton’s absorbed profile, and went on in a still 
lower voice: ' ‘ There is the estate, you know, to think of. The suc- 
cession lies between you and your Cousin Ethel, the sweet faced 
child 1 pointed out to you the other day. if you die unmarried, 
the estate will revert to'her children at your death. Of course there 
is nothing against that. But 1 am sensitive about the trust imposed 
on me by my old friend, 8ir Paul. As 1 read it, his will lays the 
whole responsibility of this question of succession on my shoul- 
ders. In other words, he leaves me the power to pick and choose a 
fitting head for the House of Mailing. Now, in the event of your 


A BITTER RECKONING. 19 

not marrying, the next heir will he the offspring ot this Ethel and 
her artist-husband, Mr. Dornton.” J 

Pauline h:id kept herself well under control since her outbreak; 
but she could hot avoid an exclamation as Lord {Summers put this 
point before her. 

“ Wind is it, my dear?’' he askefl, craning his neck to look over 
into the stalls. 

“ Nothing. 1 thought 1 saw some one who is, 1 believe, in 
Africa. Goon. 1 am listening. 

“ Let me see — where was 1? Oh, 1 know! That Mr. Dornton, 
to whom you have been kind, is engaged to your cousin, you know\ 
Well, he is a very nice jmurg man — clever, well-looking, nice man- 
ners and all that; but 1 don’t think Sir Paul w’ould have chosen 
him as the perpetuator of the Mailing family.” 

” Why not?” The question was put quickly— almost, it seemed, 
in spite of herself. 

Lord Summers’ face was all amazement as he digested the two 
words. 

‘VWhy not?” he repeated, slowly caressing his chin as he pon- 
dered his answer. ” Well, il seems to me that the question answers 
itself. Who is he? What is he? AV hence comes he? Who are 
his people? What were his father and granalathei — allow that he 
ever had a grandfather?” 

Pauline moved impatiently. 

” Of coqrse he will make an excellent husband for poor little 
Ethel, tor he is bound to come to the front.” 

‘‘ Do you know, whenever you talk of that child, 1 fancy you 
regard me as an interloper? 1 am sure your sympathies are with 
her.” 

” Not at all— not at all! You are too sensitive. 1 am glad to 
know that Geoffrey’s child is not likely to suffer hardship. This 
Dornton seems a manly, honorable young fellow, and will take 
good care of that pretty little creature. 1 should not like to think 
that m}^ old friend’s daughter was fated to spend her lite in copying 
from the old masters of the Kensington Museum, as she told me she 
does now.” 

It was well for his lordship’s opinion of his ward’s disposition 
that she was sitting with her face turned toward the stage during 
his kindly little speech, fie was a shrewd old man, and, had he 
seen the hatred and malice in her eyes when he spoke ot Ethel, his 
previous judgment ot her character might have been considerably 
shaken. 

******* 

The next day Aliss Mailing drove to the Kensington Museum, 
taking Babette with her. It was a students’ day, and the visitors 
made the round of the galleries in quietness, Pauline stopping in 
apparent interest by the side of every lady student. At last she 
found w^hat she sought. 

{Slie passed on until she reached a quiet corner, and then beck- 
oned Babette to her side. 

‘‘You see that very young girl in the gray dress with the hol- 
land apron?” 

“Yes, mademoiselle.” 


w 


A BITTER RECKOXIisG. 


“ That is the person whose address I want. Keep her in sight 
unlilUhe leaves — she is too much taken up with her work to notice 
YOU — follow her home, get the address, and then go to some of the 
shops close by and find out her name. ” 

“ Mademoiselle does not even know her name?” 

know her real name, but not the one she is going bj^ just 
now. Whatever you do, don’t miss her, even if you have to take a 
cab to follow her.” 

Miss Mailing returned to her carriage, feeling that she had accom- 
plished a good afternoon’s work. 

“ 1 may want to get at her yet,” she thought, as she settled her- 
self comfortably among the cushions of her carriage. 


CHAPTER Y. 

** I’ll not give way! If 1 stay away one day, I shall want to do it 
again, and, then my copy will not be finished by the end of the 
month, and Mr. Borroughs will give me a character for want of 
punctuality.” 

Ethel uttered this aloud, though she was alone, evidently with 
the idea that merely hearing the words would, perhaps, strengthen 
her waning resolution. 

Poor child! Her head ached, and her eyes looked quite pathetic 
with the heavy circles round them; but she refused to pity herself — 
in fact, she felt rather contemptuous toward her “ miserable want 
of character,” and resolutely plunged her head into a large basin of 
water, rubbed her hair half dry, and started for the museum. 

Though her head still ached a good deal, the copy made fair prog- 
ress, and there was no sign of neglect or hurry in the work, her 
throbbing temples notwithstanding. 

She always wore a hat with a rather large brim, when copying, 
to save her eyes from the light from above, and at the same time 
shut out most of the room and its occupants from her view, so that 
her attention was not so liable to wander from her work. 

She was engaged on a difficult patch of shadow and she sighed as 
she realizea the difference between her shadow and that of the old 
master. At that moment her lather echoed the sigh; and followed 
it Ilf by: 

” Too solid — altogether too solid, my child!” 

She did not turn, being accustomed to these little visits from hei 
father while at work in the aallery. 

“ 1 know it as well as you do, dad,” she said, plaintively; ” but 
how am 1 to alter it?” 

” Suppose we leave the shadow for to-day, and go out into the 
sunshine for an hour or two?” 

'' Now, dad. don’t tempt me to desert the post of duty. If you 
knew what a struggle 1 had with myself before 1 started this morn- 
ing, how 1 longed to stay at home and ‘ coddle’ instead of facing 
my work like a woman, you would not stand behind me, like a mod- 
ern Mephistopheles, whispering wickedness into my ear.” 

The busy fingers went on while she spoke, and the heavy eyes 


A BITTER RECKONIXG. 21 

glanced backward and forward unceasingly from the original of her 
work . 

“ Leave the painting for a few moments, dear; 1 want to intro- 
duce you to Captain Felling. ]\ly daughter!” 

Ethel plucked ott her unbecoming head-gear as she turned to face 
the unknown visitor. She was greatly surprised at the inti eduction, 
her father having kept her in strict seclusion since she left school, a 
year before; but she was too thoroughly a gentlewoman to show her 
surprise. 

” 1 taught Captain Felling the rudiments of sketching before he 
went on an expedition to Central Africa three or four years ago, and 
he is so delighted with his own efforts that he w^anted to carry me 
right away to Wimbledon at once, to see and praise them. I told 
him I must come in and set your mind at rest first.” 

” That is scarcely a truthful statement, Miss Mallett,” put in Cap- 
tain Felling, with a smile, ”1 don’t want praise, but judgment. 
The expedition 1 went out with are going to publish the result of 
our investigations, and they want some of my sketches to illustrate 
the work. Of course 1 am highly flattered, but a little bit afraid 
that the sketches are not up to the standard. When 1 saw Mr. Mal- 
lett in Piccadilly, 1 thought, ‘ Here is the man who will tell me 
honestly if 1 dare to allow them to be published;’ and 1 pounced 
upon him. And now 1 have obtained two judges in the place of 
one. My trap is waiting outside, and 1 trust yo\i will let me take 
you both down to my little box. My housekeeper will find us some- 
thing to eat, and in the cool of the evening, we can go quietly 
through my little pictures and arrange them together.” 

Ethel looked puzzled. Mr. Mallett — as he still chose to call him- 
self— could hardly conceal the surprise he felt at the adroit manner 
in which his late pupil had managed to include ” the child,” as her 
father still called her, in the invitation; and, seeing that it was ad- 
dressed to her personally, he held his tongue. 

Ethel glanced at her rather worn but prettily made dove-colored 
gown and her bibbed hollaiid apron. 

“lam not in presentable order,” she began. 

“ But you will see no one but the housekeeper and the present 
company. Show yourself superior to such considerations. Miss 
Mallett. It will be a positive favor to me, for they are hurrying the 
preparations forw^ard, and I should not like to be the cause of de- 
laying the publication of the book. At the same time, 1 dare not 
place my work before the public until it has been passed by a com- 
petent judge.” 

“ Take, papa; he will do without me.” 

“ No; 1 am greedy. 1 want you both.” 

Ethel looked at her father, and they both smiled. 

“Very well; 1 will come. But papa will tell you 1 am of no use 
in a case of this sort. ” 

Etnel leaned back in the well-cushioned phaeton, and listened la- 
zily to the conversation between the two men, her father sharing the 
back seat with the groom. 

Captain Felling’s horses traveled well, and, the breeze blowing 
right in her face, Ethel gradually lost the depressing pain in her 
head, and began to feel interested in the places they w^ie passing. 


22 


A BITTER RECKOOS^ING. 


Her new acquaintance guessed slie was tired, although he did not 
know that she had been thinking instead ct sleeping the greater part 
of the last night — and left the drive to work the cure. He talked 
on art subjects incessantly with her lather, only stopping now and 
again t«» point out some unusually striking building to the silent 
little girl by his side. 

Ethel telt supremely grateful for all this; and, when at last the 
horses stopped at a tiny cottage consisting to all appearances entirely 
ol bay-windows and creepeis-covered porch, and looking tinier stiil 
hy comparison wdth the gigantic elm trees that surrounded it, she 
had a slight tinge of pink in her cheeks, and the dark rings had 
nearly disappeared from round her eyes. 

A pleasant middle-aged woman came to the hall door, and Cap- 
tain Felling handed Ethel over to her at once. 

Give Miss Mallett a cup of especially good lea, Mrs Crichton. 
Give her ‘ Punch’ to look at, and make her lie down until a quar- 
ter of an hour before dinner. Above all, don’t let her talk; she 
has had a bad headache” — Ethel looked at him in mute surprise — 
” and it will return if she exerts herself before she dines.” 

Mr. Mallett looked amused; but the captain^ supremely uncon- 
scious of having said or done anything unusual, led the way 
through the long low hall and out at a glass door at the end. 

” This way, miss;” and Mrs. Crichton opened the door, through 
which she was followed by Ethel. 

It was the loveliest room the young girl had ever seen. The walls 
were a subdued stone green, the curtains and general decorations 
were of the same color, artistically touched up here and there with 
gold. I'here were also very thin delicate lace-curtains at the large 
bay-windows, of which there were two. There was a soft old-look- 
ing Persian rug that covered the whole floor, except a few inches by 
the walls. The floor of the windows were bare, save for some ex- 
quisite specimens of skins of which Ethel did not even know the 
names. Each of these windows was tastefully and luxuriously fur- 
nished. Theie were two — and two only— very flne paintings on 
the walls, and the whole room was littered most picturesquely with 
valuable curiosities brought home by Captain Felling. The breeze 
just fluttered the lace curtains, and the lawn and shrubs outside 
seemed to harmonize with tlie quiet restfulness of the room. 

Ethel looked round her with a sense of supreme delight. Mrs. 
Crichton mistook the look, and apologized for the general untidiness 
of the room. 

” Ton see, miss. Captain Felling took the house only three weeks 
ago. He has not been in England a month yet, and he is unpack- 
ing fresh cases every day. He won’t allow Martha or me to touch 
his wonderful curiosities, so 1 am obliged to put up with this dread- 
ful state of things. You will find this large couch more comfortable 
for a real rest Hum either of those small ones. If you will allow me, 

1 will throw this light woolen shawl over your feet. Let me raise 
your pillow the least bit. There”— after carefully arranging it 
” that is more comfortable. 1 will bring this week’s ‘ Punch’ and 
the tea in a few minutes.” 

How good the tea was, and how enjoyable the great quietness and 
peace seemed to Ethel after the disiractiug roar and rattle of the 


A BITTER RECKONI>s'G. 


23 

London streets! Her eyes ■wandered from Qpe pretty article to an- 
other in this charming room that was nearly all windows, and yet 
was not too light by reason of the well-arranged cm tains and blinds. 
Her father and Captain Felling came in sight presently, and paced 
up and down in the shadow of two large trees that stood at the far 
end of tlie lawn. She watched them with half-closed eyes, and won- 
dered lazily what they were discussing with such evident interest. 
Their voices came to her in a soothing drowsy hum. She wished 
very much that Jack was out there with them — unkind, thoughtless 
Jack, who had not written to her for a whole week. In spite of her 
present content, she fell asleep with big teai^s trembling on her 
lashes. 

Captain Felling came through the window by- and by to look for 
some cigarettes, and was surprised to see Ethel lying there. He 
had expected Mrs. Crichton would take her to her own sanctum. 

He stood irresolute for a moment just inside the window, and 
then crossed the room to look more closely at his pretty young 
guest. 

“ She's as pretty as a picture, and as good as gold, if I know any- 
thing about physiognomy. She has a trouble of some sort, poor 
little child! 1 should like to kiss those tears away. 1 wonder what 
she’s worrying about. Ferhaps Mallettis hard up ; he seems a care- 
less sort of a fellow. I’ll see if I can’t help them a bit in that direc- 
tion, any way. ” 

He found his cigarettes, and. went back to his elder guest: but he 
was not so interested as he had been in Mr. Malletl’s conversation, 
and was manifestly delighted to receive the summons to dinner. 

This was a genuine red-letter day lor Ethel. She was so intensely 
interested in the captain’s description of his travels that for the time 
she was drawn out of herself and her own affairs. 

Mi. Mallett too was heartily pleased. This was precisely the 
kind of hospitality he liked. He was not compelled to speak a 
word more than he wished, and he sat listening to Felling’s graphic 
accounts with a choice cigar between his lips enjoying the exquisite 
doke farniente of a man who had dined well and was not expected 
to repay bis host by a succession of verbal fire-works. 

And Felling was equally salisfied with his guests. When the 
evening was over, he was surprised to find how well he had talked, 
and he felt convinced that successful conversation as often depends 
on the quality of the listener as of the talker. He was rather 
ashamed, though, and not a little surprised, to find how much he 
had talked about himself. 

“ It’s a thing 1 was never given to; but, by Jove, she led me on! 
'When 1 looked into her sweet gray eyes sparkling with interest, 1 
seemed to live that business with the Kaffeis all over again, and 
forgot 1 had anything to do with it personally. 1 hope they won’t 
think me an unmitigated cad, for they’re respectable people, in 
spite of their present circumstances, I’m certain.” 

There was not much progress made in the ostensible purpose of 
the visit, seeing that the ” little sketches” — which turned out to be 
rather good specimens of their class— led the way to so much de- 
scription that they had looked only at some half dozen before they 


.^4 A BlTTEll RECKONING. 

came to one tlinl createc^a diversion which lasted until they started 
for home.' 

The captain had been holding forth on the pluck and fidelity of a 
native servant, at whose portrait they were looking, w’hen "Ethel 
said: 

“ 1 wonder you did not persuade him to come to England with 
you. A'our relatives would have worshiped him in their gratitude 
tor having saved your life so often.” 

“ 1 have not one relative in the world, Miss Mallett,” answered 
the captain gravely. 

Ethel’s glance was full of sympathy. 

“ I beg your pardon,” she put in hastily; “ 1 am sorry 1 made the 
remark.” 

” Don’t be sorry. I’m very glad. 1 often long to talk a little 
about myself, i^ou can’t believe what an awlul feeling it is to 
know that there is not one person in the world who is sufficiently 
interested in you to care for your private concerns.” 

“Decidedly unpleasant,” muimured Mr. Mallett, between the 
puffs of his cigar. 

“ You’ll hardly believe, Mallett, that this is the most domesticated 
evening I’ve spent for the last six years. Jolly hard, when you 
consider that 1 am naturally fond of home and all that kind of 
thing! 1 was just getting weary of the loneliness of this place: but 
your being here to-night has changed the whole aspect of alfaiis. 
It looks so homelike to see j'^ou sitting there as if you belonged to 
the place, Miss Mallett. To-morrow night 1 shall fancy 1 see you 
still there, and be reconciled for a time at least.” 

“You should marry — best recipe in the world for loneliness!’^ 
Mr. Mallett observed laughingly. 

“ Tried it, and found it a failure.” 

“ Eh!” Mr. Mallett sat upright and stared into his host's face; 
then he sunk back into his former position, saying, “ I beg your 
pardon, Felling, if 1 have said anything unpleasant.” 

“ Not at all — in fact, if 1 shouldn’t bore you so horribly as to pre- 
vent your ever taking compassion on me again, 1 should like to tell 
you about my marriage. Sometimes 1 think it must all have been 
a dream, it seems so unreal from the fact that 1 never by any chance 
speak of it. You see, it is scarcely a subject one would discuss at 
one’s club.” 

He sat for a moment gazing absently into the garden, which was 
beginning to look dim and shadowy in the summer twilight, as if 
he were calling up the past from its gloomy depths. Among the 
larger shrubs there Were already heavy patches of mysterious shade, 
and the young moon, in a steel-blue sky, was just rising. The 
whole outlook was impressive in its perfect stillness, and the cap- 
tain’s manners seemed in harmony with the surroundings. * Ethel 
felt a shiver of superstitious awe pass over her, and thq^movement 
seemed to bring back the captain from the momentary reverie into 
which he had fallen. 

“You are cold, Miss IMallett? Shall I shut the window?” 

“ No, thanks; 1 enjoy the fresh cool air.” 

He crossed the room and fetched a light woolen wrap. 


A BITTER RECKONING. 25 

•‘-Put this round you then. You must indeed; I can notallow 
you to catch cold on your drst visit to me.’' 

There was a slight pause after he had sat down, and again Ethel 
felt the curious little shiver run over her. 

“ You don’t know what a strange place this world is, Miss Mal- 
lett,” he began. “ Your father loves you, and takes every care of 
you. If any man were to offer you the least rudeness, he would im- 
mediately resent it; he shields you from all harmful influence and 
knowledge; and you have grown up like a little daisy, modest in 
yourself and ignorant of the flaunting splendor and wickedness 
around you. You must therefore bear this in mind, and not be hard 
on the failings of others who have not had your privileges. My 
wife— poor girl! — had no. mother when 1 first met her, and was 
totally dependent on her father for society. It was a bad training 
lor a young woman, for her father was a good-natured careless fel- 
low, alw^ays avoiding responsibility as long as was possible, and, 
when at last compelled to show authority, making up by exaggerated 
harshness for his previous neglect. 

“ My wife was a high-spirited girl, and could not submit to his 
alternate fits of indulgence and tyranny. She was about seventeen 
when 1 first met her, and her father’s treatment was becoming un- 
bearable. She used to pour her tales of woe into my sympathetic 
ear, until 1 became desperately sorry for her, and suggested the only 
means in my power to help her, which was to make her my wife. It 
was a foolish proceeding, 1 know; but I was young then, and had 
not begun to look at life seriously, or 1 should have asked myself 
how her position would be bettered by being tied for life to a help- 
less, penniless fsllow, as 1 was then. Well, we were married — 
privately, of course — and for a few weeks thought we loved each 
other very dearly; then she had another fearful quarrel with her fa- 
ther, and begged me to take her away to a home of her owm. 1 
was earning a beggarly pittance at that time by sending home week- 
ly articles on ‘ English Life in Rome ’ and so forth to some of the 
London papers. 1 explained my position to her, and advised her to 
wait until 1 had obtained a certain appointment, of which 1 w^as 
almost sure. She lost her temper— poor chil4, it was natural enough 
in the circumstances— and vowed she’d ijever come near me again. 
The very next day 1 was telegraphed for to England. 1 wrote to 
her, asking her to be patient for awhile, telling her that 1 would 
work hard and get a permanent post now that there was a necessity 
to work, and promising to come back shortly to take her from the 
cruelty to which she had to submit. 

“ On my arrival in England, 1 found that an almost unknown 
uncle had left me a property amounting to nearly three thousand 
pounds a year. Y^ou can imagine how glad 1 was for my poor girl’s 
sake. 1 made up my mind to surprise her and personally communi- 
cate the good news, so did not write How 1 have always regretted 
that decision! 1 got through the usual legal formalities as quickly 
as possible, and rushed back to Rome — only to find them gone! 
Some told me they had gone to one place, some to another, until 1 
was utterly at a loss what to do. Hov ever, 1 traced them, after a 
month’s search, to Naples; and then it was only to find that her 


26 


A BITTER RECKONING. 

father had died a few days previously, and that she had disappeared 
no one knew whither. 

“ You can imagine my misery! There was 1 in possession of an 
income sufficient to make us both so happy and contented, while 
she was probably slaving to keep herself, if not In absolute w^ant. 
1 did not know any of her people, so I was compelled to search sin- 
gle-handed. For six months 1 went up and down like a restless spirit 
in search of peace. At last I found her — or rather her grave— tor 
she was dead; she had died in a convent, where she had been teach- 
ing English. By the hdp of a lay sister 1 obtained permission to 
see her grave. There was a plain stone with her name only, and 
the date of her death, which took place some tew weeks prior to 
my visit. Poor child! 1 can not convey to you how great a blow 
it was to me, and m}^ grief was not lessened by the fact that she had 
died at enmity with me.” 

“ We must hope she forgave you, although you did not see her,” 
Ethel saitl, quietly. 

Felling did not answer, and there was silence for a time. It was 
a relief when Mr. Mallett spoke. 

“ She must have been of a most unforgiving disposition to resent 
3^oui poverty so bitterly, and to nurse her hatred to her dying mo- 
ments.” 

“ 1 don't think she did that — indeed, the chances are that, in her 
poor little way. she was looking for me as anxiously as 1 was for 
her. It was one of those strange fatalities that human foresight 
seems utterly unable to prevent.” 

He rose and shook himself, as if wishful to put away the memories 
that had crowded upon him while speaking of the long-silent past. 

Y'ou will think me no end of a bore for annoying you with all 
this history; but, if you can imagine the relief it has been to me to 
speak of it, and you have any kindness in your hearts, you will 
forgive me for the infliction. Now we will have the lamps and 
revenir d nos moutons in the shape of sketches.” 

” Not to-night, 1 think; it is already past ten. We have to get 
back to town, and 1 have a long day’s work before me to-morrow.” 

“ But my poor sketches!’ 1 have ill Y"ou must come down and 
spend a long day with meon Sunday — that can’t interfere with jmur 
work. What do you say, Miss Mallett?” 

Ethel looked perplexed. She had hoped against hope that Jack 
would return every Sunday since his departure, and went through a 
torment of expectation as the day wore on. This had taken place 
for the last three Sundays; but she still went on hoping. 

Her father, recognizing the difiiculty in which Ethel found her- 
self, came to the rescue. 

” Ethel is thinking that Sunday may not be her own to give.” 

“Y'ou have friends coming? Will ymu think me un pardon ably 
intrusive if I ask you to bring them too? 1 have no friends of my 
own to ask, except the fellows 1 have been in Africa with, and! 
am honestly tired of their society for the present. 1 know 1 am not 
conforming to ceremony in making this request; but you must 
accept me as half a barbarian since my long slay in the wilds of 
Africa.” 


A BITTER RECKONING. 27 

“ 11 Ethel can arrange matters, it shall be as ;vish. 1 can’t 
say more; for it is not my affair, bat hers.” 

“Thank you very much.” Then, turning to the old house- 
keeper, he said: “The lamps, it you please, Mrs. Crichion; also 
some brandy and soda, and a Vittle port-wine negus tor Miss Mal- 
lett. Tell Jim to put Marjorie to the dog-cart, and get ready to 
drive Mr. and Miss Mallett back to town. Mind, Mrs. Crichion, 
bring that dark-blue scarf thing with the hair fringe down trom my 
room to wrap Miss Mallett i»^ it will be cold driving.” 

Ten minutes later the captain stood alone at the gale, watching 
the dog-cart disappear down tlie road. He lighted a Ciigar — his first 
that evening— very methodically, puffed at it thoughtfully, and said 
to himself: 

” bo it's Ethel’s ‘affair.’ Well, 1 hope they’ll come and bring 
Ethel’s ‘ affair ’ with them. 1 shall be better able to judge of my 
own chance after 1 have seen my rival.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

It was a day or two after Ethel’s visit to Wimbledon that she sat 
reading a curious letter with which was inclosed a sheet of paper 
bearing only these words, “My darling Ethel,” at the tup. The 
letter accompanying the blank sheet read as follows: 

“ Vour lover cares for you no longer. His honor and his pity 
tor you alone keep him to his given word. He makes light of you 
to others. Take the remedy into your own hands. He consented 
to leave the letter he commenced writing to you, which is inclosed, 
and even laughingly gave it to another woman.” 

Ethel did not quite believe all this; but she believed enough of it 
was true to justify her in giving Jack an opportunity of treeing him- 
self trom his engagement. She decided that she would not worry 
her father, but would act for herself. Acting on this decision, she 
wrote: 

“My dear Jack,— Ton have now been away the three weeks 
which you decided, before sta’-ting, was to be the outside limit of 
your stay. As j^et you do not say anything about returning, but," 
on the contrary, speak of your work as being likely to keep you for 
several weeks longer. In the three wrecks of your absence you Lave 
written me four letters, and those have evidently been an unwelcome 
task. Do you guess what 1 am going to say? 1 wish 1 were sure 
you knew, that 1 might be saved the pain of writing the words. 1 
think you have found out that you do not care. for me in the way 
you thought you did, and your sense of honor alone is keeping you 
to the letter of your engagement to me. I have reasons of which 
you know nothing for believing this to be the case; so 1 am writing 
now to say that perhaps we have both made a mistake, a,nd that, if 
you are willing, our engagement had better come to au end. 

“ Please don’t think 1 blame you in any way; it was only one of 
those mistakes that everybody is liable to make. 

“ Ever your sincere friend, 

“Ethel Mallett.” 


28 


A BITTER RECKO>n"I>sCt. 

Poor Ethel! How she cried over that letter! How she hoped 
against hope that Jack might not be willing to end-the engagement! 
How carefully she read the words through to be sure that she had 
not definitely settled the matter — that in fact, she had done only 
what she intended— given Jack a chance of accepting his freedom 
if he wished for it! 

Had the matter-of-fact little epistle arrived at a more favorable 
moment, had Jack had leisure to read between the lines and dis- 
cover the wounded pride and self-respect that had dictated every 
word, his manhood might have asserted itself in Ethel’s favor. As 
it was. Jack read the letler impatiently at first; but, as its meaning 
dawned upon him, he turned back to the top of the leaf and read It 
again, assured himself of the unequivocal nature 'of the ofter of 
freedom, thrust it into his pocket, and went off whistling energet- 
ically to meet Miss Mailing at the station on her return from town. 

Pauline saw at a glance that something had happened, and, know- 
ing what she knew, guessed shrewdly what that something was. 
She had not been five minutes in Jack’s society before she felt a 
subtle difference in his manner toward her. 

There was a something— she could not tell what— in all he said and 
did that conveyed the impression of his intention to do and dare alt 
that was possible to win her. There was a bolder glance fiom his 
eyes, a more determined pressure of the hand, as he helped her from 
the carriage, than he had ever ventured on before, and she felt in- 
stinctively that, unless she meant to marry this young man, she had 
better seek safety at once in absence. 

And yet the masterful manner rather strengthened than lessened 
her feeling for him. She had for the last six years been so accus- 
tomed to be humbly worshiped and adored that there w^as a delight- 
ful sense of freshness in Jack’s “ stand and deliver ” style of pro- 
ceeding. 

“ 1 am so glad to find you still here, Mr. Dorntoul” she said, at 
luncheon, glancing at him bewitchingly between the leaves of a 
palm-plant. “We were so afraid that you would not have been 
able to endure a fortnight of this terribly dull place, and that we 
should find you gone. Weren’t we, Mrs. SetonT’ 

^ “ You forget that Mr. Dorn ton has had a real occupation to make 
« the dullness endurable. His life is not passed in killing time, as 
yours is, dear.” 

. “ To be sure! 1 had forgotten to ask how the pictures have pro- 

gressed?” 

“ The view of the house from the wood is finished as far as 1 can 
finish it here. The rest of the work 1 must do in Newman Street. ” 

“ That is where your studio is, is it not? 1 should so like to see 
some of your completed pictures. AVill you ask us up some day to 
look at them?” 

“Any day you please. Say the day after to-morrow?” 

“ No, no; I can not go back to dusty London again so soon. 1 
expect my first batch of visitors on that day, too. At last 1 shall be 
able to do something in the way of entertaining you, Mr. Dornton, 
and show my gratitude do you for enlivening our solitude in the 
past.” 


A BITTER RECKOKi:&^’G. 29 

“ You are too kind. But 1 liave made arrangements for return- 
ing to town to-morrow.” 

“Nonsense. You speak of arrangements in such a serious way 
that one might imagine you had a wife and children who would be 
fancying you were Idlled on the railway if you did not appear at the 
expected moment ; instead of which you are that enviable creature 
— a man without a tie.” 

The words were said carelessly and lightly enough, yet Pauline’s 
heart throbbed from fear that he might contradict the assertion. She 
paused an instant, dreading his reply. He made none; but a dull 
red crept slowly up his face to the roots of his hair. She read this 
sign to suit herself, and went on; 

“ That being the case, as you have no one to claim your presence 
as a right, why not favor me with it as a pleasure? 1 should advise 
you to stay, Mr. Dorhton. There are some really charming people 
coming on Thursday whom you should know.” 

“ 1 shall be only too glad to stay; but 1 should not like you to 
think I stayed to make fresh acquaintances. If 1 stay, it will be 
because you ask me, and because it will be such a real pleasure to 
me.” 

“Now that is very nicely put; and the aflair is settled. Y/ill 
you show me what work you have done in my absence?” 

“ If you two are going to talk ‘ art,’ 1 shall retire ^and help 
Babette.” 

Mrs. Sef ton was the embodiment of discretion, a very model for 
lady-companions. She walked away cheerfully, and Jack followed 
Miss Mailing to the picture-gallery. 

They were standing in front oftheeasel on which Jach had placed 
his painting of Mallingford House. It was a charming picture. The 
glaring brilliancy of the original was toned down by the intervening 
branc&s and foliage of the foreground. 

“ Yuu must do me a copy of this, Mr. Dornton,” said Pauline, 
“ as a memento of that first morning when 1 found you asleep in 
the wood.*’ 

“ And f wakened me!” 

The words were simple enough, but Jack threw a great deal of 
expression into them, and his eyes conveyed a world of meaning. 

Miss Mailing flashed a glance at him as she asked: 

“ Did 1 wake you? It was quite unintentional on my part.” 

“ And involuntary on mine.” 

Pauline, fearing that the conversation was getting beyond her con- 
trol, turned quickly and caught up the first picture that came to her 
hand from the open portfolio. 

As was to be expected. Jack had spent many of his spare hours 
duyng the last lonely fortnight in painting her portrait from mem- 
ory; and it was this that she caught up in her nervous haste. 

“ Oh, Mr. Dornton!” she exclaimed, in rapturous tones. Even 
her vanity was satisfied, and she blushed genuinely at the lovely 
picture Jack had made of her. 

“lam sorry you found that. Y'ou will perhaps think it gross 
presumption; if so, 1 can destroy it. i can’t wish it undone, for it 
has given me so many pleasant hours.” 

“ Presumption? No, indeed! I feel astonished at the truthfulness 


so 


A BITTER RECKOiNTII^G. 


and (he flattery you have managed to combine in the picture. Of 
course 1 have often been told 1 am a good-looking woman; but 1 
don’t think I am anything like that.” 

“ Then 1 may Keep it?” 

“Yes; if* you will keep it only in your studio. You will not ex- 
hibit it?” 

“ Can you think it?” 

“ 1 can not understand how you could paint a picture like that 
from memory.” 

“ Then you can not understand what memory is.” 

After that there was an awkward pause. Pauline half wished to 
hear Jack say that he loved her, and yet she halt dreaded it, for she 
had not yet made up her mind as to how she w^ould answ^er him. 
She was quite sure she loved him; but then in her histoiy there 
were certain facts that compelled her to follow the counsels of pru- 
dence rather than inclination. She was rather alraid just now that 
inclination might become too strong for her if she gave it full lein 
much longer. But she was like a child playing with Qre; for, 
though she knew the danger attending such a pastime, she could 
not bring herself to give it up. She flattered herself that Jack 
would not dare to declare his love without more open encourage- 
’ment iLau she had yet given him, and, woman like, she hovered 
about the dangerous edge, neither advancing, nor receding, and al- 
most wishing fate would take the ma^er out of her hands. Her 
wish was fulfilled sooner than she anticipated. 

Jack showed her his sketches one after another, and they were 
iliscussed, criticised, and replaced. 

As he put the last one back into the portfolio, he turned and ad- 
dressed her abruptly. Willi such impetuous force did his words 
flow that she was compelled to listen to the end. 

“ With regard to my staying here, Miss Mailing, I did not care to 
discuss the matter further before Mrs. ISefton at luncheon; but I 
must do so now.” 

He drew a deep breath, and clinched his hand firmly on the back 
of a chair. The beginning sounded so very business- like lhat 
Pauline suspected nothing near the ti uth of what was coming, and 
turned to him in quiet surprise. He did not, however, give her 
time to speak. 

” 1 can not— -1 dare not stay here without telling you the truth; 
for, if 1 allow my feelings to becomeany stronger than they are, and 
meet disappointment in the end, I’m afraid 1 shall not be respon- 
sible for my actions. Miss Mailing, 1 love you— madly, passionately; 
1 love you! While 1 am telling you this, 1 know the chances are 
that you will presently turn your back and say, as you leave me, 
* Please quit my house at once;’ yet 1 now tell you, because I gan 
not stay in your presence with safety another hour unless you give 
me some hope. 1 have loved you from the moment I w^oke and saw 
you that morning in the wood. You will say that is not very long; 
to me it is a life-time. 1 never lived until that moment. 1 shall 
never live again if you send me away. If you do not crush me with 
the weight of your scorn, if you will give me one little word of 
comfort, of the faintest hope, 1 will make for myself a name of 
which you will be proud. Don’t think me boastful, for 1 feel that 


31 


A BITTER RECKOXIKG. 

your love -will endow me with such strength of puipose, such force 
of will, that all obstacles must give way before them.” 

His face was very pale when he ceased speaking. Pauline stood 
near him, the color coming and going in her cheeks, her eyes fixed 
on his face; but slie said never a word. When he spoke again, his 
words came slowly, hesitatingly, and his voice had a stified sound, 
as it choked with despair. 

You have no answer for me; but you do not tell me to leave 
you! It can not be that, Pauline; heart of my heart, queen of my 
soul, you love me!” 

His last words died away to a whisper of intense rapture; and, as 
Pauline felt his arms encircle her, his kisses on her lips, she forgot 
all the shadows that lurked in the past, forgot all the questionable 
means she had emplo 3 ed to attain this end. She only knew that she 
loved him with all the force of her passionate nature, that she was 
loved in return; and for the moment there was in her heart as 
supreme a joy as was ever felt by woman. 


CHAPTER YU. 

P'OR some reason Pauline Mailing was in a very irritable state of 
mind. Perhaps she was regretting the moment's impulse thjit had 
prompted her to accept a nameless young painter, after refusing 
offers by the dozen. From whatever cause it aryse. Miss Mailing’s 
temper was certainl}^ very much ruffled this afternoon. Sh(3 sat in 
a low' chair in her dressing-room, an hour before dinner, looking the 
person ification of angry beauty, her brows drawn together in a line, 
and -her Lips cruelly set, reminding one strangely of the tigers’ heads 
on the hall chair-backs, though where the likeness lay it would have 
been hard to determine. Babette, too, seemingly had a weight on 
her mind. She crept about her work, laying out Miss Mailing’s 
elegant evening toilet with a subdued air very different from her 
usual noiseless activity. Babette was doing her best to get through 
her duties, wfflen, as ill luck would have it, memory for a moment 
asserted itself, and brought before her a picture of a prett^y black* 
eyed little urchin tossing from side to side in his small cot and cry* 
irig out her name unceasingly as he refused the cooling drink 
offered by a hand he did not love. 

The maid sobbed — sobbed audibly. 

Miss Mailing raised her ej'es from their contemplation of the 
carpet, and looked in dignified surprise at the young Frencluvoman. 
Noting for the first time the signs ot tears on her face. Miss Mai* 
ling felt angry. Was it not enough that she w'as worried? How 
dared this creature add to her disquiet by coming there and crying 
— absolutely crying 07er her work? 

. “ What in Heaven’s name is the matter with you, Babette? Pray 
don’t let me have any weeping and wailing. If there is one thing 
that exasperates me more than another, it is a crying woman.” 

” Pardon, mademoiselle; the grief overcame me malgre moi, I 
would not for a moment worry you with my trouble. 1 did not 
intend to speak my^self ;-but, as you have noticed my^ sorro w^ I will 
make bold to tell y^ou that 1 have a little step-brother, the only' being 


32 


A BITTER RECKO^’-Iiq-G, 


in the world who is related to me, and 1 have here a letter telling 
me he is very ill, and that he asks for me night and day— night and 
day.” . The poor girl’s voice broke for a moment; but she rallied 
and went on. ‘‘It mademoiselle could spare me for just enough 
time to get to Boulogne and baciv to see ihepmiwe petit !'* 

“ And what am I to do in the meantime?” Pauline asked icily. 
‘‘ Of course you can go, if you like; but you need not come back. 
And do not trouble to apply to me lor a character; for I shall cer 
taioly refuse to give you one if you insist upon leaving me in this 
sudden manner. 1 am surprised you should ask me such an insane 
thing, when you know the house will be full of people the day after 
to-morrow. 1 could not possibly do without you. Pray, do not say 
another word about it, and please leave off crying.” 

Babette moved away to the far end of the room, wiped her eyes, 
and stood for an instant quite still, repressing the sobs that shook 
her frame. 

‘‘ If my little Pierre dies without seeing me I will never forgive 
3'ou — never! I will watch for a chance of doing you a great harm : 
and it will come if 1 am patient,” the girl thought. 

Had Pauline heard the muttered words, she would not have felt 
so complacent at getting" over the diflaculty of doing without her 
maid. 

After dressing Miss Mailing and making the dressing-room tidy, 
Babette passed through the picture-gallery on her w^ay to Mrs. Per- 
kins' sanctum foi\Jier usual cup of tea. Thinking everybody must 
be down-stairs, she stopped at Jack’s easel and looked at Pauline’s 
picture. 

‘‘ So you think all the world is made for your pleasure? You are 
too high a lady to trouble yourself with your servants’ affairs; but 
perhaps they will trouble themselves with yours, madame! I have 
seen you flinch and shrivel up strangely sometimes. People don’t 
shrivel up for nothing, unless they have a fear of something; and 
if they have a secret fear, there must he something bad to cause it. 
If my little darling dies without the comfort of kissing his Babette 
once, it will be your fault; and all my life long 1 will watch, 
watch, watch, to try to repay your cruelty to me and him!” — and 
she looked as if she meant it. 

. Jack, who had stopped until the last moment finishing his rather 
difficult letter to Ethel in his own room, was struck by the intense 
haired in the woman’s face as he opened his door, wondered for the 
moment what could have caused it, wished the next that he could 
call it up at will and use her as a model for a fiend, and the next 
moment forgot all about it — for the Iasi bell began to sound-, and 
he hastened down-stairs. Throwing liis letter on the hall table, he 
hurried into the drawing-room to make his peace for being late. 

Babette had her quiet cup of tea with Mis. Perkins, and, with a 
plentiful shedding of tears, wrote to the woman who had charge of 
little Pierre, to say that she could not come to lier darling just now. 

The letter was full of loving messages and promises, and the poor 
girl’s heart felt very heavy as she ]mt it into the bag. She had 
taken it into the hall herself, knowing that eveiybody was safe for 
the nexi hour in the dining-room. There was another letter lying 
there ready stamped for post; she took it up carelessly, recognized 


A BITTEK RECKOinKG. 


33 


R by the red seal as the one Jack had had in his hand when he 
passed her in the gallery, and stood transfixed with surprise as she 
.read (he address. 

The address ot that pretty demoiselle that 1 tollowed home trom 
the Museum, by her orders! Why, there is something in this! Why, 
if she wants the address of a lady who is known to Monsieur Dorri' 
ton, does she not ask him, instead of setting me to follow her like 
a policeman? 1 shall have that to find out!’* 

“ Babette, I want you,’* Mrs. Perkins called from the door that 
shut off the servants’ quarters. 

Something in the voice, some subtle touch of sympathy, struck 
Babette ’s quick ear. She turned so sharply that Mrs. Perkins had 
not time to conceal the black-bordered letter she held in her hand 

With a heart-rending cry, Babette s( arted forward and snatched 
the letter from her. 

She was a quick, impetuous, unreasoning and unreasonable 
creature; she did not stop to consider that she could not have re.ached 
ihe chihi even if Pauline had given her instant consent. She re- 
membered only that her mistress had been cruel to her in the time of 
her trouble; and she registered a vow that, it there was any shame- 
ful secret in Pauline Mailing’s past life, she would hunt it out and 
humiliate her. 

* * * * * * * 

Mrs. Sefton, nodding over her work in the drawing-room, won- 
dered what Pauline was talking about for so long a time with Mr. 
Dornton in the garden. She began dimly to understand that Miss 
Mailing was going further than usual with the young man, and won- 
dered whether her beautiful friend was going to throw herself away 
upon this penniless nobody. 

And Jack and Pauline, forgetful for the time being ot everything 
and everybody in the universe but themselves, paced slowly up and 
down the terrace, stopping occasionally to lean for a few minutes 
on the stone balustrade. Yet, even on that, the first day of his hap- 
piness, Jack felt dissatisfied; he had an inward consciousness that 
something was wanting in himself. 

Though his love for this glorious woman was more absorbing, 
more intense, than his feeling’for Ethel had been, his better nature 
had forced him to acknowledge that this was altogether a lower type 
of the divine passion, that respect and reverence were pntijely absent 
from it, and that the increase of his love did not compensate for its 
lack ot ideality; nevertheless, his love making was very satisfactory. 

You are sure that you have not deceived yourself — that you 
really love me enough to make this sacrifice for me without regret- 
ting it in the time to come?” he asked, softly, knowing beforehand 
what the answer would be. 

She put her head against his arm, as she answered ; 

‘‘ Why do you talk of sacrifices? 1 am making none. Can you 
not understand that, when a woman loves with all her soul, as 1 
love you, nothing that she does for the man of her choice can be 
looked upon as a sacrifice? If she loses everything, yet keeps his 
love, is not her loss rather her gain?” 

“ My noble, generous darling!” 

Not at all. If anything, lam more selfish than generous in this 


S4 


A BITTER RECKOKIIhG, 


matter. All 1 did was to accept you when you asked me to be your 
wife, and so make myselt the happiest of women. Oh, Jack, you 
can’t understand what my misery would have been if 1 had not had 
the opportunity given me.” 

Jack pressed her still closer to him, and was silent awhile. His 
next remark rather startled his love. 

‘‘ 1 must go up to town to-morrow and see Lord Summers, and 
tell him of the honor you have done me.” 

” Why must j^ou?” 

” Because it is the only straightforward thing to do; he is your 
guardian.” 

‘‘At present— yes, to a Certain extent. But this is the end of 
July, and on t4ie seventeenth of September he will no longer have 
a shadow of authority over me. Why not wait until then to an- 
nounce our engagement, and so prevent the possibility of unpleas- 
antness from any one?” 

” You think, then, he would object?” 

Pauline flushed uncomfortably as she remembered her guardian’s 
remarks on this subject. 

”1 don’t know; he might. Y'ou see, my uncle, Sir Paul, had 
such a very exaggerated notion of the importance of our family, 
and the first object of hjs will was to prevent my commtting the 
mistake of marrying tor love. It 1 acted up to his wishes, I should 
either marry for the good of the family name or not at all. Don’t 
let us talk about that part of the business. 1 shall be my own 
mistress in September, so your love and patience Vvdll not be put to 
a very severe ordeal. Let it be as 1 wish. We can keep our love 
for each other to ourselves until then. i^.fterward — ” 

The pause was eloquent. 

“Afterward?” Jack repeated, bending toward her. . “How 
soon afterward?” 

“ That shall rest with you.’* 

“ You really mean that?” 

“Yes.” 

“ I'hen 1 should say the last day of September.” 

“So soon!” She caught her breath quickly. 

Jack, leaning close to her face, heard the gasp, but coiild not 
judge if it was caused by joy, fear, or merelj'' surprise. 

“My darling, 1 will not force your inclination; you shall name 
your own time.” 

“ No; it may just as well be soon as late. At any rate, there can 
be no drawing back then, and 1 shall be at peace.” 

Jack felt somewhat puzzled. 

“ You do not think 1 shall want to draw back?’* 

“No — oh, no!” 

“ Do you think it probable that you might want to draw back if 
you were given more time? Because, it so — ” 

“ No — a thousand times no! Don’t speak in that distressed way. 
Jack; 3 ^ou hurt me. 1 don’t know wlij^ 1 said that. I know only 
one tiling, that 1 love you beyond all else in tlie world, that 1 can 
not live without 3 ^ 011 ; and 1 will not risk having you harassed or 
annoyed by 13 'ing gossip. People will say 3^11 are marrying me for 
my fortune, if they have time to recover from their surprise; and 


A BITTER' RECKOJs^IJIG. 35 

that is why 1 should like our engagement not to be published un- 
til within a week or two of the wedding-day. ’’ 

“ And what is your opinion, Pauline?” 

“On what?” 

“ AS to my motives lor asking you to marry me.” 

“ I believe that you love me, and that you would marry me to- 
morrow if 1 came to you and said, ‘ 1 am not Pauline Mailing at 
all. 1 am an impostor. 1 own nothing in the world but the clothes 
I stand up in.' ” 

She had freed herself from Jack’s arm, and stood before him with 
her hands on his shoulders, trying to read his face by the dim light 
of the stars. Jack took the beautiful face between his hands and 
kissed it passionately. 

“ My darling, 1 only wish you were poor that I might prove how 
much 1 love you!” 

She resigned herself to his embrace, and sighed wearily as she 
laid her head on his shoulder. 

Jack cogitated on the change in his '-fiancee ^ as he smoked his cigar 
in his room that night. 

“ What a wonderful thing a woman’s love is!” he murmured, 
complacently. “This grand, imperious creature, who has treated 
the noblest and wealthiest of the land as playthings, no sooner meets 
a man she loves than all the womanl}" traits of her character come 
out, and she is subdued, gentle, and trusting as the humblest of 
her sex— almost as gentle as ” — he was almost saying, “ my 
little Ethel.” He pulled himself up impatiently, and a little 
pang of regret seized him as he recalled the fact that she was no 
longer his. “There is one thing 1 don’t like, and that is this 
secrecy. It looks as if 1 were stealing my beautiful queen from 
her people. 1 would far rather go straight to Lord Summers for 
his approval. Of course it would be only a form, as Pauline is so 
nearly twenty-five; but it is a form 1 would rather observe than 
cmit.^’ 

He shrugged his shoulders as he threw the end of his cigar 
through the window and prepared to retire for the night, reviling 
himself as a “ splitter of straws, a searching for flaws, without any 
cause. ” 


chapter Vlll 

A LETTER lay by Ethel’s plate; but she did not touch it. Mr. 
Mallett, self-absorbed as ever, did not notice how his daughter was 
struggling to preserve her usual composure all through the break- 
last-time. 

“ Then you will send word to Captain Polling about to-morrow. 
I should like to go ver}'’ much; but 1 will not interfere with you in 
any way, my child; so decide as will please yourself.” 

Ethel went down-stairs with him, kissed him at the door, bade 
him not to be later than one o’clock, as it was Saturday, and she 
expected her usual weekly half holiday, and then returned upstairs 
to her letter. 

Her pretty face was ghastly pale, and her hand shook a little as 


36 


A BITTER RECKO^IIJsG. 


sbe picked it up; but her mouth was firmly set, and there was no 
trace of tears as she broke the seal. 

It was a very short letter, and, however much she might have felt 
inclined to cry beforehand, its business-like, matter -of-f act tone 
roused all her woman’s pride, and her indignation choked her grief 
before she had finished reading it. 

Jack Dornton had not intended to be cruel when he wrote it; 
but, after destroying a dozen sheets of paper in his desire to be 
neither too soft nor too hard, he decided at last that the shorter and 
plainer he made it the better; and this was what he had written: 

“ My dear Ethel, — 1 should not have had the courage to do as 
you have done; but perhaps you are right — as indeed you always 
are. For the future will you allow me to consider myself 
“ Your faithful friend, 

“ JoHis Doris TON?” 

“lam glad— so very glad 1 wrote it. It would have been dread- 
ful if we had married, and Jack had found out that he did not care 
for me afterward. Now 1 had better destroy that anonymous letter. 
I thought that perhaps Jack might have wished the engagement to* 
continue, in which case 1 should have sent the letter to him and 
aslied for an explanation.” 

So Ethel went bravely about her home duties, though her very 
lips were white with the restraint she was putting on her feelings. 
She tried with all the strength of mind she possessed to put her 
humiliating grief away from her. 

“ Why should 1 sorrow for him if he can throw me ofl without 
one word of regret?” she asked herself, angrily. 

Still, in spite of her determination to crush her love under the 
weight of her self-respect, she now and again felt as it her heart 
would break. She resolutely denied herself the relief of tears, and 
suffered far more intensely in consequence. 

The thrushes and the lively robins and perky sparrows were 
having a good time of it on the lawns at the Wigwam that morn- 
ing— tor there had been a shower during the night, and food was 
plentiful. Capt. Felling was fond of these small birds, and liked to 
see them about the place, and he had determined to do what 
he could to lame them during the hard winter weather, should 
he decide to stay on in the Wigwam, which he had taken fur- 
nished for six months, with the option of renewing his tenancy 
for a similar term. He did not take much notice- of the little creat- 
ures this morning, though. He was in a ” brown stud}',” and sat 
so motionless on his comfortable cane chair under the veranda that 
the more courageous of the birds hopped about within a yard of his 
feet. 

The fact was Capt. Felling was disappointed. He had expected 
a letter either from Ethel or Mr. Mallet that morning, to settle about 
their visit on the morrow. 

“Even it they do not care to come,” he told himself, “they 
miirht have been civil enough to send some conventional excuse.” 

He was greatly annoyed with Mrs. Crichton at breakfast because 
she would stand talking about orders for the morrow. At last he 


A BITTER RECKOXIKG. 


37 


told her irritably that the housekeeping was her department, and 
for Heaven’s sake not to worry him about such trifles. He did not 
know whether he would be alone or whether he would have com- 
pany. In any case she had better provide plenty ; then they would 
be on the sate side. 

Mrs. Crichton apologized and courtesied. and was leaving the 
room, when he repented of his anger, remembering that she had 
nothing to do with his present annoyance, that she was only doing 
her duty, and, being a dependent, was hardly a fair butt for hia 
anger; he at once begged her pardon for his ebullition of temper, 
doing it too so heartily and sincerely that t)ie old lady was more 
than ever delighted with her temporary master— he having taken 
her with the house from its owner — and she told Martha, in the 
privacy of the kitchen, that “ he could not have done it handsomer 
it she’d been a duchess instead of his working housekeeper.” 

After awhile it occurred to him that perhaps the Mallets had 
writlen, and that the letter had miscarried— and he felt somewhat 
relieved at the bare idea. Then he wondered if it would not look 
too patronizing on his part of he were to call and inquire about 
their decision. One moment he decided one way, and the next the 
other, until he had worried himself back into his former state of ill 
temper. 

At last he made up his mind that he would go up to town in any 
case; and as he went alons he would decide upon what course he 
would pursue. And all through his vacillation he never once ad- 
mitted to himself that it was his longing to see Ethel again that had 
for the moment transformed him into a human shuttlecock. 

He shouted to Jim, frightening the birds by the suddenness of the 
demonstration; and, when the groom appeared round the corner of 
the house, he ordered the phaeton to be got ready in twenty minutes,, 
adding, “ And see that it is ready to the minute, Jim.” 

Capt. Felling retired in-doors, and Jim went oft, grumbling at the 
” inconsiderateness ” of masters in general, and this one in partic- 
ular, ” expecting a chap to turn out a carriage and pair properly 
in that time!” 

But, notwithstanding the short notice, the phaeton was ready a 
minute before the appointed time, looking as perfect in every detail 
as if Jim had known overnight that it would be wanted. Felling 
had the reins in his hand and his toot on the step, when he noticed 
a telegraph- boy coming toward the house, He waited a moment. 
Yes, it was for him! 

“ From Geoffrey Mallett, Buckingham Street, Bloomsbury, to 
Captam Felling, The Wigwam, Wimbledon. Shall be with you at 
two o’clock to-morrow. Get the sketches in inspection order.” 

And the man of thirty felt a lad again in’ his light-heartedness, as 
he sent his handsome bays along the road. But he did not mean to 
be done out of his intended visit. 

” She can’t be greatly annoyed if 1 just stay a moment,” he told 
himself ; ” and 1 am not going to disappoint myself after having 
made up my mind.” 

Ethel had bustled so energetically through her work, in her 


38 ■ 


A BITTER RECKOJSrilvG. 


anxiety to keep lier mind away from her grief, that she found her- 
self with nothing to do a clear hour before her father would he 
home, She knew it would never do to sit down now and undo the 
good wrought by her determination; so she put on her hat, intend- 
ing to go across to Covent Garden and get a few flowers with whiqh 
to beautify the room, when she heard some one asking for her in 
the hall below. 

She leaned over the balusters, trying to see who the unwelcome 
visitor was, but caught only a glimpse of a gray-clothed pair of 
shoulders and of a huge bunch of lovely flowers before they disap- 
peared under the intervening stairs. 

A minute afterward she was shaking hands with Capt. Felling. 

“ You will forgive my intrusion for the sake of the flowers, won’t 
you, Miss Mallett? 1 got them to make me up a bunch of those 1 
thought you would like best. Isn’t the color of that rose splendid? 
And the mignonette smells so fresh. 1 don’t know whethei 1 like 
the smell of mignonette or of wallflowers the best. Which do you 
prefer?” 

‘‘ Wallflowers, ] think, because they seem to belong more posi- 
tively to the country.” 

So they do. All the London men grow mignonette, but they 
have left the wallflowers alone up to the ^present. Won’t you get 
some dishes and put the flowers in water now? They look a little 
thirsty already, don’t they?” 

Ethel gladly set about what was to her a labor of love. She 
reached down some large dark-blue dishes from over the mantel- 
piece, and began fingering the flowers tenderly, laying them loosely 
in the handsome porcelain, interspersing the green plentifully among 
the lovely blossoms. Felling sat in Mr. Mallett’s own particular 
chair, watching her with a great contentment in his honest eyes. 
But he wondered a little what had caused the weaiied look on her 
face, and he wished with all his heart that circumstances gave him a 
right to inquire about it. 

She looked up presently and divined something of what was 
passing in his mind, even fancied he knew something of the truth, 
and was perhaps pitying her. A hot, angry, distressing blush 
rushed over her face, and he concluded at once that the worry was 
in some way connected with that somebody who was “Ethel’s 
affair.” He was instantly engrossed with one of Mr. Mallett’s 
paintings on the wall, and took care not to distress her again by his 
too-evident interest. 

” 1 don’t rerhember this one when 1 used to come here before 1 
went abroad; 1 like it very much. How was it 1 never saw 3mu in 
those days. Miss Mallett?” ' 

” 1 suppose 1 was at school. How long since is it?” 

” Between four and five years.” 

” I was at a convent in France at that lime, learning my lessons 
* like a good child.” 

” 1 can believe that of you.” 

“ Believe what?” 

” Believe that you were a good child.” 

” On what do you found that belief?” 

“ Fresent appearances. ” 


A BITTER RECKONIilG, 


39 


He hoped Ethel would smile at this, and so she did; but there 
■was so little effect from the performance that he decided not to try 
again. “ By Jove/’ he thought, “ tears would be jollier than such 
a smile as that!” 

Ethel, as if suddenly remembering something, then turned to him. 

“ Do you know I sent you a telegram this morning? 1 suppose 
you left home before it arrived?” 

It Was more an assertion than a question. 

” And its import?” asked the artful captain. 

‘‘ That we intend lunching with you, to-morrow.” 

” That’s good hearing. And your friends? 1, hope it will be a 
nice party. How many shall I tell Mrs. Crichton to prepare for?” 

He did not look at her as he asked this, but began abruptly to ar- 
range a posy himself. 

” There will be only papa and 1.” 

He seemed to realize the true state of affairs as he remarked the 
painful steadiness of the short reply, and he was seized with a mad 
desire to horsewhip some unknown perfidious lover. Yet, in spite 
of his yearning pity for the plucky little girl, his heart quickened 
joytuliy at the thought that perhaps this man’s unfMthfulness had 
left the road open for him. 

” I’m glad of it!” he returned, heartily — and he meant it. ‘‘ 1 
shall call at my club on the way back, and leave a message that 1 
am not at home for those everlasting bores with whom 1 went to 
Africa, so that we may enjoy the quiet of the country. Now 1 have 
seen the flowers safe, 1 must be off, or Jim will bless me for keep- 
ing the horses standing in the sun. I am a perfect slave to those 
animals, Miss Mallett — truth, 1 assure you! Good-by, or rather an 
revoir r' 

Ethel was surprised to find how little the effort had been to enter- 
tain Captain Felling, never for a moment ascribing her success to 
the true cause — his determination to entertain her. 

As for Felling, he stopped again at Covent Garden on his way 
back, and purchased grapes, peaches, pears, pine-apples, and Heav- 
en knows what, until Jim was fenced in with his purchases. At 
night the captain set the chairs in the diawing-room window as they 
had been when Ethel sat there listening to the stofy of his foolish 
marriage. Rather sheepish he looked while he was doing it, as if 
ashamed to acknowledge his folly to himself; but, when it was 
done, he sat contentedly puffing his cigar, looking at the place where 
she had sat, and where hq hoped she would sit again on the morrow 
and on many morrows; and his plain but perfectly well-bred face 
looked almost handsome, beaming with the benevolence of his 
thoughts, as he pictured the dove and happiness with which he 
would surround Ethel if he only had the chance. 


CHAFTER IX. 

Jack’s love-making went on swimmingly during the lovely sum- 
mer weather and among the beauties of Mallingford. The house 
was full of visitors now, and, in accordance with Fauline’s wishes, 
their engagement was kept strictly private, and they enjoyed each 


40 


A BITTER RECKONING. 


Other’s society only as occasion served. SliH, in spite of all their 
care, the state of affairs was pretty shrewdl}^ guessed at by most of 
the people about 'them, and the well-bred guests wondered im- 
mensely at Miss Mailing’s sudden fit of uLworldliness. Strangely 
enough, Babette, with all her sharpness, was one of the last to hear 
of her mistress’ infatuation for the artist-chap,” as he was scorn- 
fully descril^ed among the servants; but the moment she did hear 
of it she began wondering and watching until in her own mind she 
was sure that Miss Mailing was really deeply in love with this good- 
looking M. Dornton. Babette liked Jack — as indeed most of the 
servants did, although they looked upon him as rather belonging 
to their own rank in life than their mistress’ — and, knowing, as she 
believed she did, the evil of Pauline’s heart, she was sorry to think 
that such an altogether, too charming young man should be so 
thrown away. 

There was another and a more powerful motive for her dislike to 
the match. She guessed, with a woman's keenness in such matters, 
that this was the or.e love of Pauline’s life, and she told herself 
that she woul;i give five years of her own existence to be able to 
rob her of her lover. If she could only find out what the secret 
worry was that caused Miss Mailing’s occasional tits of dejection! 
If it was a disgraceful secret, how joyfully she would betray it to 
this new lover and send him away from his lady-fair forever! 
What happiness it would be to her to slay and watch the anguish 
and misery she had caused! flow she would gloat over Jiliss Mai- 
ling’s despair and revel in her heart-aches! 

So Babette was always on the watch for some clew that would 
help her to discover her young mistress’ secret; and at this time she 
showed great interest in Mrs. Perkins’ gossip about the family, hop- 
ing to glean some scrap of information that might be of use to her 
in furthering her revengeful purpose. 

“ And, if mademoiselle had married against the wishes of Milord 
Summers, or without his consent, she would have lost the whole 
estate?” she asked, one evening in August, as she sipped her tea 
leisurely in the one hour during the day that she was^ure of a rest 
from Pauline’s everlasting requirements. 

“ Yes, it she did so before she was twenty-five; but after her 
twenty-fifth birthday she will be free to marry whomsoever she 
pleases; and, as she will be twenty-five on the seventeenth of next 
month, there is not much chance of her sacrificing the estate at this 
time of day, after waiting until now.” 

“ That is so,” observed Babette, with a disappointed air. She 
reflected for a few moments, and a flash of intelligence crossed her 
face as she asked,' “ And if mademoiselle liad married in her ex- 
treme youth— what you call ‘ on the sly ’ — befoie she had known 
she was the heiress of this property — how then?” 

She put the question quietly enough ; but her eyes were glittering 
with excitement as she awaited Mrs. Perkins’ reply. 

“ 1 should think she would lose everything.” 

** "Who would have it after her?” 

** Sir Geoffrey, the late baronet’s brother.” 

To be sure! It must have been a great blow to him when he 


A BITTER RECKONING, 


41 


found himself robbed of everythioc; by his brother’s injustice. 
“What did he do? Where did he 

“ 1 don’t know. He is as proud as any of the family, and, when 
his brother told him never to come near the place again, as it should 
never be his while there was another Mailing in the world to inherit 
it — that was when he told him of his marriage, you know— he put 
on his hat without one word, and walked away with his head as 
high as if he were the heir of thousands. We’ve never seen a sight 
of him or his since that day, and it’s my belief we never shall.’' 

“ 1 should think he must hate Miss Mailing.” 

” Very likely; 1 think I should look upon her as a usurper if 1 
was him.” 

Babette believed she had found the key-note to Pauline’s secret ‘ 
trouble. That there was a secret trouble she never doubted for one 
instant. She had observed her mistress too closely to be misled on 
that point ; she knew that nothing but some mighty fear could cause 
those sudden starts, followed by periods of anxious, heavy-browed 
thought, to which she was subject: and, when Babette went up- 
stairs, she reasoned the matter out. 

” 1 have heard that she never knew she was her uncle’s heiress 
until after her father's death. What is more likely then than she 
should have married out there in Italy— married some poor idiot 
who was caught by her pretty face? And then, when lady sud- 
denly finds that she is a rich woman, she is tired of this poor fool,, 
and runs away and enjoys her life by herself. The change of name 
too would help her in hiding from liim. 1 believe 1 have found the 
dark spot in my fine lady’s life! If this is as 1 think, 1 can take 
from her her beloved fiance and her riches at one blow. How glo- 
rious that would be!” 

Her face glowed with savage satisfaction at the bare thought of 
so complete a revenge. She left her seat by the window of Pau- 
line’s dressing-room, and paced up and down, her excitement being 
too gieat for her to remain still. 

“ If such a marriage did take place she is too cunning to keep any 
proof of it about her. She was most likely married at Naples after 
her father’s death. 1 wonder how much money it would take to 
search for the certificate? 1 would spend my last sou to find 
proof!” 

Babette shook as it with an ague, as fresh ideas crowded on her, 
and plan after plan passed through her brain, each to be rejected as 
soon as formed. Her pace unconsciously quickened, as if in a vain* 
attempt to keep up with her thoughts, until she was walking as it 
tor a wager, and her hot hands passed over each other unceasingly. 

The dusky gloom deepened until the room was all in shadow, and 
presently a housemaid came in and lighted the candles in the large 
silver branches on the toilet-table. She tried to entice the French- 
woman into a chat, but it was of no avail; and the girl retired mum- 


bli 



“Who is she to give herself such airs? Never to answer when she 
is spoken to indeed!” 

As the door closed behind the disappointed gossip, Babette re- 
sumed her promenade up and down the now brilliantly lighted room, 
reached the end where the table was, and came to a sudden stop 


42 


A BITTER RECIxOKIKG. 


her eyes rested on the key lett in the lock of a small bronze box. 
This box contained Miss dialling's private keys! She locked up 
very little; but what she did lock up she w^as rather particular 
about, and her keys were invariably kept in this Indian box, the key 
of which she carried about with her. 

As Babette stood looking with a dull, fascinated gaze at the key, 
she heard the rustle of. silken skirts in the gallery outeide. With a 
swoop like a haw’k’s, so swift and noiseless was it, she plucked the 
little key from (he lock and slipped it into the pocket of her dainty 
frilled apron. The next instant Miss Mailing turned the handle of 
the door, opened it, and saw Babette rearranging the lace draperies 
round the looking-glass. 

She crossed the room and went straight to the table, glanced 
quicklv" at the box, and then turned to Babette. 

“ Have you seen the key of this box?" 

“Not to-day, mademoiselle." 

“ Provoking!" She took it up in her hands and shook it. “ Yes, 
the keys iire inside. Babbtte, I wish you not to leave these rooms 
to-night until 1 come up to bed. I have dropped the key some- 
where. 1 don’t suppose it will be found until we have daylight to 
help us— it is so small. Have your supper sent up to ^ou here." 

“ Very good, mademoiselle." 

Miss Mailing gave -certain little touches to her dress and trinkets, 
arranged her front hair, took a clean handkerchief from the scented 
box on the table, saturated it with perfume, and then left the room, 
raying as she did so: 

“ Bemember, you must not leave these rooms upon any pretext." 

Babette stood with her hands held tightly over her heart, listening 
to the rustle of the silken skirts along the gallery and down the 
stairs, until the sound was lost in the distance. Then her expres- 
sion changed from strained attention to vivid triumph. She threw 
her clasped hands high over her head, and whispered through her 
closed teeth: 

“ She has some proofs somewhere! She is not so wise as 1 
thought her. She has kept something that will condemn her if it 
is found; and 1 will find it this night. 1 must be careful; 1 will 
not do anything until the men have gone to the drawing-room, and 
she will then be pretty sate with her cJier Monsieur Dornton. Oh, 
but it is sweet, this revenge!" 

She sat down by the window to live through the half hour of wait- 
‘ing, and never moved a muscle until the scent of a cigar rising from 
the terrace below roused her. She pulled the curtain aside an inch or 
two, and looKed cautiously out. 

Pauline and Jack found their self -restricted intercourse very 
tedious, and often wished the houseful of visitors at the uttermost 
ends of the earth. This evening, by previous arrangement, they 
were having a few minutes of stolen bliss. 

The moon was at its full, and Pauline was asking Jack if he re- 
membered that it was the last nmnth’s full moon which saw their 
first happy confidential chat; and she murmured softly of the rapid 
growth of love between them since that time. 

“ If anything were to happen now to part us, 1 should go mad or 
put an end to my life!" 


A BITTER RECKONING. 


43 


The words were uttered with intense emphasis; and, while Jack 
soothed her with a sense of unrest in his own heart, the vindictive 
face peering: Ihrouah the lace curtains above gleamed with a tierce 
hope of verifying the passionate words. 

At last Babetle heard the men’s voices as they crossed the hall. 
She looked at the lime-piece, and patiently watched the minute hand 
travel slowly over ten minutes. 

“ They must be settled now, and I will begin my search.” 

She locked both doors, closed one window to prevent the blinda 
from fluttering, and then unlocked the small bronze box. 

“ It is an excellent casket for keys, so small and pretty that one 
could carry it anywhere, and so strong that nothing short of a stone- 
breaker’s hammer could torce it open. And yet, 'ina foi, of what 
use is all this strength and cunning when one has the key?” 

She laughed £S she picked out a key from the bunch and tried to 
unlock Pauline's large desk. 

” At last!” she whispered, as the lock of the desk flew back. 

She began methodically to remove every article singlj^ placing^ 
them neatly in a heap on the table, after reading or looking at them. 
She emptied one side of the desk, then refilled it, being very care- 
ful to put the things back in the order in which she had found them. 
Then she t-urned to the other side going through it in the same 
way, and reached the bottom without discovering anything more 
than is usually to be found in a lady’s desk. With a disappointed 
air, she began to replace the articles. Her nerves were in a highly 
wrought state, and the sudden sound of the piano in the room below 
so startled her that Miss Mailing's address-book fell from her shak- 
ing hand on to the floor. 

She stooped to pick it up as it lay open; and, in doing so, she 
saw the edge of a photograph peeping from the pocket in the cover. 
She took it out hurriedly, scattering, as she did so, some dead 
pressed violets on to the lable. She shuddered when she raised the 
tissue-paper, for it was the photograph of a grave! 

She went to the dressing-table, where the candles were still burn- 
ing, to read the name ol the photographer at the back of the card. 
The printing was in a language she did not understand; but she 
guessed it must be Spanish from the word ‘‘ senhor.” She turned 
to the picture again, and in the stiong light she could almost make 
out part of the inscription on the plain headstone. The first name, 
she was sure, began with the letter ” P.” In order to ^assist her, 
she procured Miss Mailing’s magnifying-glass, and. with the aid of 
that, she spelled out the name, or as much of it as she could see, for 
the first tew letters of the second name were obliterated by a blem- 
ish in the photograph. 

” P-a-u-l-i-n-e ” she' could clearly trace; then came a blot, fol- 
lowed by ‘‘ 1-1-i-n-g, d-i-e-d M-a-y 18-—.” The .remainder of the 
inscription was undistinguishable. 

'' Mon DieUy I never expected this! The grave of Pauline Mai- 
ling! Then who is my mistress? An adventuress— -a usurper! And 
1 shall have a hand in dethroning her!” 

She wiped the perspiration from her white, quivering face, placed 
the photograph in her dress, and locked the desk. 


44 


A BITTER RECKONIis^G. 


CHAPTER X. 

Jack was by no means heartless, and his conscience pricked him 
more often than was pleasant with regard to Ethel Mallett. To be 
sure, she was the first to suggest that they should separate; but then 
it was most certainly his shameful neglect that had driven her to do 
it. He wondered a bttle if she had really ceased to care for him, if 
she had yet found a successor to him, or it pique alone had led her 
to ofl^er him his freedom. She had sent him back tlie little ring he 
put on her finger when they were so happy together, and, with a 
strange inconsistency, he carried it about with him continually; he 
had become so used to having it in his vest pocket that he felt an- 
noyed if he put his hand there and did not find it. 

Just about this time Jack began to think that he ought to call in 
Buckingham Street, if only to show his gratitude for Mr. Mallett’s 
many past kindnesses, for the old gentleman had often been able 
and always willing to do Jack a good turn in past days. Once con- 
vinced that he ought to do a thing, Jack did it, unless Miss Mailing 
used her influence against it, in which case duty was ruthlessly 
thrown to the wall, for her power over his head and heart was just 
now unlimited. 

Jack was uncomfortably conscious of his own weakness in her 
hands, and he condescended to diplomatize a little in order to carry 
out his wish without obstruction. 

The morrow would be the first of September, and the house was 
full of people who had been invited to enjoy the abundant sport 
Mallingford offered. A number of amiable young men were loung- 
ing about the corridors and billiard-room all day, who talked of 
nothing but the probable weather on tha morrow, the chances for 
and against good sport, and the respective merits of their own and 
other men's guns. Jack obtained a few words with Pauline before 
breakfast, and carried his point. 

“ 1 must have several things for to-morrow,” he said. “ I know 
you would not wish me to be different from others, and 1 can not 
get what 1 w^ant without going to town myself.” 

Pauline would have dearly liked to go with him, for she had a 
horrible fear that he would find out something if he should call on 
the Malletts. She was not supposed to know of the existence of 
such people — for Jack had never spoken of them to her— so she 
could not well ask him not to call on them; and she could not leave 
her guests without some very serious reason; consequently she was 
forced to feign a complacency she was far from feeling as she an- 
swered : 

“ Uf course, if you must go, there is nothing more to be said; but 
you will not slay one half hour longer than is absolutely necessary? 
If 1 don’t know where you are, 1 have such a leeling of unrest and 
anxiety that life becomes a sorrow for the time being.” 

There was honest truth in these words, and Jack was flattered 
and grateful tor her love. He kissed the beautiful lips, and prom- 
ised to be back at the very earliest moment possible. 


A BITTER RECKONING. 


45 


1 Bhall not feel so foolish when we are married, 1 dare say, be- 
cause then you will be my own, and no one can take you fbom me; 
but you would pity me if you could know how the tear of losing 
you overcomes me when you are away. 1 teel no safety, no secu- 
rity in your love until i see your dear truthful eyes looking into mine 
once more.” 

When Jack was in the train, with a quiet half hour before him 
tor thought, he felt curiously cloyed with the sweets of love, and 
was ungrateful enough to wish that Pauline would leave the love- 
making a little more in his hands, and that her aflection was of a 
less assertive character. 

Two or three hours later, when he had rushed through the busi- 
ness of the day and stood in the Malletts’ sitting-room, shaking 
hands with bolh father and daughter and exchanging cordial greet- 
ings, he felt as if he had been living in a hot-house of affections for 
the past weeks, and had just regained the invigorating open air, 
ivhere the hardier, healthier class of feelings flourish. 

He wondered a little at Mr. Mallett’s geniality, knowing nothing 
of Ethel’s generosity in taking the entire responsibility of their 
separation upon herself, and still less of her father’s hope that she 
had got rid of a nameless nobody just in time to leave the road 
clear for a suitor more worthy of her in every way; and Jack felt 
somewhat piqued that Mr. Mallett should make so light of the 
whole business. 

But he did not let his annoyance appear upon the surface. He 
told of the success of the paintings for Lord Summers, of his hopes 
for the future, of the gay life at Mallingford, and impressed his 
hearers with the fact that he was brimming over with good fortune 
and happiness. 

Ethel did not say much; but she appeared to be quietly, kindly 
interested; and, though she was paler than she used to be, she 
did not give one the idea of a love-lorn damsel. She sat listening 
to the conversation, and wondering if her father would touch on 
the subject of their identity during Jack’s visit; but Mr. Mallett did 
hot wish to be made the topic of gossip among Miss Mailing’s 
guests, and therefore kept his own counsel. 

When Jack was about to leave, Mr. Mallett decided to walk part 
of the way with him, and accordingly went down-stairs first. Jack 
turned, with the door-handle in his hand, to thank Ethel for what 
she had done— yet hardly to thank her either. * 

“ 1 can’t go without thanking you for being so candid with me, 
Ethel,” he said. “ Of course 1 was very surprised when 1 received 
your letter breaking off the engagement; but equally of course 
there was nothing for me to do but acquiesce in your wish.” 

Ethel felt how ungenerous this remark was, seeing that bis neg- 
lect had led to what had happened; but she woula not be driven 
into reproaching him, and so give him cause to justify himself. 
Her feelings were too real to bear dissection, and she avoided the 
discussion. 

“ That is all passed,” she said, gravely; ” better let it rest.” 

Though she did not say one word in self-defense, there was a 
world of reproach in the subdued tones of her voice ; though her 


46 


A BITTER RECKO^STIXG. 


speech was so indifferent, her whole manner asserted her right to be 
considered more than blameless throughout the affair. 

Jack felt miserably small under her" calm gaze, and his respect for 
her was vastly increased by this little p^issage at arms; and. as he 
was carried by the afternoon express back to Mallingtord Park, he 
could not shake from h^s mind the fable of the dog and the shadow. 

Pauline hovered round him more than usual that evening. 

“ How was it that you could not get back until the 4:50?” she 
asked, as they stood leaning over a pile of music, searching for a 
song. 

” I found my gun was out of repair, and 1 had to leave it with 
the gunsmith for a couple of hours.” 

” And how did you spend those two hours? You must have 
found it dreadfully wearisome with two hours on your hands and 
not a Christian left in town to go to see.” 

” There is always the club.” 

Pauline raised her eyes, sparkling with inquisitiveness, slowly to 
him. 

‘ ‘ Surely you would find the club a very dull place ! And were 
you really driven to endure two hours at an empty club-house be- 
cause you had nothing better to do? Poor old boy! 1 am sorry for 
you.” 

Jack thought he detected a touch of sarcasm in her tone, and, 
knowing that he was deceiving her, he could not check the tell tale 
color that came into his face. But then he remembered she knew 
nothing about the Malletts, and he was surprised at her persistent 
curiosity. 

She looked at him smilingly, and went on: 

” 1 am not the only person who has missed you. Bertha Collins 
has been bemoaning your absence all the afternoon. She says you 
are the only man in the house who can devote a thought to us poor 
women during the delirium of the gun-fever. INow, just, look at 
those creatures on the rug. I’m convinced that you won't hear a 
dozen words spoken among them to-night without the introduction 
of the word ‘ gun,’ ‘ dog,’ ‘ cartridge,’ or ‘ bird.’ ” 

” Don’t be too hard on them, Pauline,” said the Hon. Miss Col- 
lins, as she Joined ihem. ‘‘We are Just as bad sometimes.” 

” 1 don’t admit that, Bertha.” ^ 

” Well, 1 know for a week before Ascot 1 can think and talk of 
nothing but what 1 am going to wear.” 

“You are the embodiment of candor, Miss Collins,” JacK de- 
clared. 

He felt grateful to the merry little brunette for her timely inter- 
ruption of Pauline’s cross-examination, and induced her to stay by 
pushing a chair forward and coaxing her into it, He did not care to 
resume his Ute-d-Uie Just then. Pauline took her part in the con- 
versation; but she was burning with Jealousy, for she had read the 
tell-tale flush, and knew that Jack had not told her the whole truth 
about his afternoon’s doings. 

“ \es, 1 think 1 am candid,” Miss Collins responded. “ But, be- 
tween ourselves, 1 only make a virtue of necessity. You men know 
all our failings so well that it is of no use to deny their existence; 
therefore, I gain credit for the one virtue of truthfulness by Just ad- 


A iBITTER RECKONING. 47 

mitting an established fact when 1 confess lo vanity, jealousy of my 
sex, and selfishness.” 

“ Rather sweeping, is it not?” 

“Perhaps; but 1 don’t believe in doing things by halves; and 
I’m quite sure you do^i’t, Mr. Dornton.” 

“1 feel highly honored.” 

“ AYhy do you think that, Bertha?” asked Pauline. 

Miss Collins actually blushed. 

* Well, I’ve just made a declaration that truth is my only virtue, 
so I’ll tell you, although I’m rather ashamed of myself. The other 
day 1 was dozing on one of the window-seats in the picture-gallery. 
'When 1 woke up, Mr. Dornton was at work destroying paintings. 
He cut some oils into pieces with a knife, and the water-colors he 
tore into fragments. 1 was mean enough to keep quite still and 
watch him; and when he had finished, 1 w'as still meaner, for 1 went 
and looked at some of the fragments, and I believe that they were 
all portraits of th^ same brown-haired lady. 1 drew my own con- 
clusions— and 1 dare say you will draw yours, Mr. Dornton, and set 
me down as the most impudent girl you ever met; but you know the 
old saying about speaking the truth, and—” 

She pulled herself up, and Jack laughed heartily. Pauline glanced 
at him with unrrixed approbation, and he felt that he should not be 
badgered again as to how- he had passed his day in town. 

Still, although there was peace between them, Pauline went to 
her room with a strange sense of defeat, for she knew Jack had 
evaded her question, and she could account tor his doing it only by 
believing that he had called upon the Mallei ts. 

“ But,” she argued, “ Ethel has kept silence on the subject of 
that anonymous letter, or else Jack would surely have guessed at 
the sender ami in some way shown his displeasuie.” 

Babette noticed the anxious expression on her mistress’ face as 
€he brushed her hair for the night, and she fondly believed that the 
key to it was securely sewn up in leather and tacked to her corset; 
but for once tile keen French girl was wide of the mark. It was 
not the past but Ihe future that was troubling Pauline. She fancied 
that Jack’s love had cooled somewhat since the first days of their 
courtship, and her heart went out in a wild prayer that nothing 
might come between her and the man she loved so entirely. She 
told herself that she would be willing to give up wealth, worldly 
position — everything— and count poverty a blessing,*it only to re- 
tain his love. 

Ethel, too, in her solitude, had an unhapp]^ time of it that night. 
She did not disguise the fact that Jack’s visit had been a sad ordeal 
to her. She had guessed how matters stood between him and Miss 
Mailing from a few words which he had let fall— words which her 
brave, faithful heart had been all too ready to interpret— and she 
tried to resign herself calmly to the fate which was overtaking her 
slowly, but none the less surely. 

Captain Pelling was often in Buckingham Street now. He turned 
up unexpectedly at all hours of the day, and always came with some 
elaborately-prepared excuse, and was so gentle and delicate in his 
manner that Ethel at times felt herself a perfect monster of ingrati- 
tude because she could not give what she knew he had staked his 


48 


A BITTER RECKONING, 


all lo possess, and what she knew was no longer within her power 
to give. 

“ If 1 had but known him before 1 met Jack!’’ she cried, despair- 
ingly, as she laid her head on her pillow on the night after Jack’s 
visit. ‘‘ He is so good, so straightforward, so tender and manly, 
that 1 must have loveii him if 1 had not already loved the other. 
And the dad — the dear, loving, hard-working old dad— has set his 
heart on it too, 1 can see. it seems so hard that two good men 
should be disappointed of the one wish oi their hearts because a 
foolish girl can not forget her first love — a first love who has already 
forgotten her, and bound himself to another!” 

That was the bitterest drop in her cup of sorrow. 

“11 Captain Pellinc asks me to be his wife, 1 will tell him every- 
thing; and then he shall decide for himself. 1 don’t think he wili 
care to marry a woman who loves somebody else.” 

^ And with this comforting thought she cried herself to sleep. 


CHAPTER XL 

The rain was coming down in torrents, and there was a general 
expression of disappointment on the men’s faces round the break- 
fast-table at Mallingford Park. 

“ But you know it is really too bad,” Cecil Danesford observed 
■ to Miss Mailing, who had been trying to comfort him. “ Your head 
man had fixed to-day for the north- end covers, and he says they are 
the best on the whole estate; and now this rain comes and spoils the 
whole thing. 1 dare say it will rain again to-morrow; and then 1 
shall have to return without having had a pop at them. It is an- 
noying, you must allow!” 

“ Poor creatures — men!” said Bertha Collins, retlectively. “ The 
comfort of theii lives depends upon the one amusement of the hour. 
Deprive them of that, and they are stranded helplessly. Glad I’m 
a woman!” 

So am 1,” replied Cecil, promptly. 

“ Can’t see why that should be so, unless you think 1 should take 
the shine out of some of you if 1 were a man.” 

“ You are sharp!” he says, looking at her admiringly through 
his glass. Hpw do you do it? Doesn’t it tire you awfully, some- 
times?” 

“ Xo; I’m too used to it,” she replied, with an excellent imita- 
tion of his drawl. 

“ Well, 1 hope you will have got over the first rush of slaughter 
by the seventeenth,” Pauline interposed, bringing the conversation 
back to the original subject. 

“Why by the seventeenth?” several asked. 

“ Because 1 shall then attain my long-deferred majority, and dear 
old Lord Summers insists that there will be a big affair on the hap- 
py occasion.” 

“ A ball? Delightful!” exclaimed the ladies. 

“ And 1 sha’n’t be here!” muttered Cecil to Bertha. 

“ Perhaps we shall not mourn,” returned that pert young lady. 

A crushing retort was on his lip, when his attention was suddenly 


A BITTER RECKONING. 49 

arrested by an advertisement in the “ Times,” which he held in his 
hand. 

“By all that’s mysterious!” he exclaimed; and then he sat gaz- 
ing at the newspaper in mute astonishment. 

” What have you found, Danesford?” 

” Don’t keep it all to yourself, man!” 

Bertha leaned across, and looked at the place he was pointing at. 

” How extraordinary!” she exclaimed. 

“For pity’s sake, let us into the mystery!” Pauline said; and 
Bertha read out the following advertisement: 

“ ‘ Mallingford Park. —If this should meet the eye of Sir G. M., 
he will hear of something to his decided advantage b}’’ applying to 
Messrs. Daws & Raven, 16 Leman Street, E. C.’ ” 

There was general astonishra^ent, and various were the surmises 
as to what it could mean. Jack, glancing at Pauline, was surprised 
to see her agitated and white to the lips. She motioned to him not 
to notice it, and fought determinedly with her emotion. The others 
were too absorbed by their curiosity to take much heed, and by a 
strong effort she, to all appeal ance, regained her composure, and 
bore herself as usual until breakfast was finished. 

“ Will you help Mrs. Sefton and me to finish filling in the cards 
for the seventeenth?” she asked Jack, as she left the breakfast* 
room. 

Jack promised to join them in the houdoir in a quarter ot an 
hour, and went off to the conservatory to smoke a cigar. He did 
not like to think of Pauline’s look. He was a poor struggling artist, 
who had hitherto lived by the exercise of his own unaided talent, 
and Pauline was a rich, high-born woman, his superior in most 
things that count in this world; yet he would not make her his wife 
if he did not believe her honor to be spotless and without flaw. This 
was the idea that haunted him as he recalled her look at the break- 
fast-table. It ever a woman’s face expressed suddenly-aroused 
guilty fear, \m fiancee's had done so when Bertha Collins read that 
advertisement in the “Times.” He went back to the breakfast- 
room before he joined Pauline, read the advertisement again, and 
copied the address into his note- book. - 

“HI am in the neighborhood, with a few moments to spare, 1 
may look them up and see what it means,” he decided. 

Then he followed the ladies to the houdoir. 

Pauline, still looking unlike herself, was sitting with Mrs. Sef- 
ton. Jack said nothing then, but went straight to his work of filling 
in the invitations from the list of names given him; still he could 
not help wondering what could have caused such extraordinary 
emotion on the part of one who was generally so impassive, 'so 
languid and unemotional in her bearing. Mrs. Sefton left the roo!ii 
after a time; and Pauline, turning to Jack, put her hand entreating- 
ly on his arm. 

“ 1 know what you are going to ask me; but 1 can’t talk about it 
just now — not to-day. I will tell you to-morrow, or the day after; 
but don’t speak of it now. I ask it as a favor. ” 

Jack felt perplexed. He had expected, the moment they were 


50 


A BJTTER RECKOXIIsG. 

alone together, that she would tell him what had caused her dis- 
quiet. He felt unhappy and worried, yet he could hardly force her 
to speak upon a subject thatevidenllj^ distressed her. 

“ Of course, 1 don’t want to worry you, darling,” he answered; 

but 1 must confess 1 am curious, and 1 shall be glad when you 
can tell me all about it without distressing yourself.” 

” Thank you ver}" much, dear. And now 1 want to ask you if 
there is any one 3’ou would like me to send a card to for this ball.” 

Jack flushed as he replied: 

” Yes; there are two people 1 should like you to invite — Mr. Mal- 
lett and his daughter. They are everything desirable, or I should 
not'suggest it; and the old gentleman was very kind to me in the 
days that are gone.” 

” Was the daughter kind, too, Jack?”~playfully. 

Again Jack flushed a little. 

” 1 think you are a bit of a witch,” he said, with a laugh. ” 1 
may as weirtell you, and then there will be no secret in my past for 
you to find out by and by. Yes, she was kind to me, and once 1 
thought 1 liked her well enough to make her my wife; but thatw^as 
before 1 met you, you siren I” 

” Y^ou don’t think so now?” 

‘‘ if 1 did, should 1 be here?” 

Pauline pushed her chair close to his. 

” If 1 had found that out tor myself, instead of hearing it from 
you, 1 should have forgiven it. 1 could forgive you everything that 
is past, but nothing in the presf^nt. Can yon say the same to me?” 

” I think so;” and he kissed the face resting on his shoulder. ” 1 
could forgive you everything in the past that did not touch my 
wife’s honor.” 

” You are less generous than 1 am; you make a reservation.” 

Jack met the beautiful browm eyes fixed anxiously on his, and 
smiled. 

” on must know that there is an immeasurable difference between 
a woman’s fair name and a man’s.” 

She sighed gently, and Jack thought he liked that pathetic mood 
better than any other. Mrs. Set ton returning at that moment, Jack 
asked : 

” Then 1 may send those cards?” 

The question at once flashed through Pauline’s mind. ‘‘ Is there 
danger to me in their coming here?” and she decided that their 
presence in one place or another could neither lessen nor increase 
iier danger. She felt more sure of Jack since he had told her about 
Ethel, and slie rather doubted whether her uncle would care to 
come to Mallingford Park, under his incognito, as he w’ould be cer- 
tain to meet people who would recognii^.e him; so she gave a hearty 
consent to*the invitations being sent. 

The rain continued to pour uown steadily, and ihe scratch, 
scratch of the busy pens went on without interruption. Pauline 
finished her list first, and sat back in her chair, with a thoughtful, 
chastened look on her face which was strangely unlike her usual 
imperious air. Jack noted it, and thought her more beautiful, if that 
were possible, although he w'onderedVhat had brought about so 


A BITTER RECKONING. 


51 

great a change. He felt a forewarninir that this was the little cloud 
in their sky that would darken the whole heavens. 

“ At last!” he exclaimed, as he threw down his pen. 

“ You have been a good boy,” Pauline said, with a smile. ” We 
could not have finished them to-day without your help.” 

“ 1 think you have written too much, my dear; you look quite 
fagged,” J\Irs. Sefton remarked, as she .dropped the notes into the 
post-bag. ” It 1 were you, I should take a good rest after, lunch- 
eon, or you will not be fit to entertain your county neighbors this 
evening.” 

That is sound advice, and 1 will follow it. It is such a boie to 
be compelled to entertain folk that one does not caie for.” 

She turned to Jack as Mrs. Sefton left the room with the bag. 

” That is one of the duties that 1 shall so gladly hand over to you 
byandby.” 

Jack was throwing the scraps of torn paper into the waste- paper 
basket and did not answer.” 

For a moment she looked surprised, then her face darkened, and 
she left the room abruptly. She had fancied all the morning that 
she had detected a coldness on Jack’s part, and had thrown out 
this allusion to their future relations as a feeler. The result had 
realized her worst fears, and she locked herself in her dressing room 
in utter despair. 

“ So 1 shall lose him, after all, if 1 can not satisfactorily explain 
this morning’s fiightl He will not allow a secret between us. 
What can 1 do? If 1 concoct a lie to account for it, there may be 
an advertisement in to-morrow’s paper that will expose it. Who 
can want to find Geoffrey Mailing after allowing me undi^^puted 
possession for the last six years? If they find him, they will tell all, 
and he will claim his inheritance; they can not want him tor any- 
thing else. 1 must discover how much they know, or how can 1 
fight them? 1 can’t trust another; 1 must do it myself;” and, with 
these thoughts running through her mind, she crossed to the bell, 
which Babette promptly answered. ” Babette, 1 want to run ,up 
to London this afternoon, and 1 don’t want the whole house to 
know about it.” 

Babette’s eyes flashed with a quick glance of intelligence; but her 
lids drooped instantly, and she answered, meekly : 

“ Certainly, mademoiselle.” 

“If the people see the brougham leaving the house, it will set 
them wondering; so 1 want you to run down to the village during 
luncheon and bring back one of the public flies from the inn there. 
Tell the man to drive to the stable-yard— in fact, you can come back 
in it; and let it be there by a quarter past three.” 

“ Very good, mademoiselle.” 

“ Are your hoots thick? and your cloak, is it waterproof?” 

“ Mademoiselle is very good to think of such things. 1 shall be 
all right.” 

“ There is the luncheon bell. Don’t talk about it among the ser- 
vants; and don’t be later than a quarter past three.” 

Babette’s face gleamed with cruel delight behind Pauline’s back, 
as she left the room. 

“ So you can think about Babette’s boots and cloak when it is to 


52 


A BITTER RECKONII^G. 


serve your own purpose? And you Ihink you have only to go to 
’Messieurs Daws & Rayen and show your pretty face, and maybe a 
’ten-pound note or so,' and they will tell you all about the person 
who sent them that advertisement! But you do not outwit a French- 
woman so simply, my good friend! JMr. Daws is quite prepared to 
receive jrou with politeness, and to tell you that he really knows 
nothing more than that .his client, whom he is not at liberty to 
name, is anxious to obtain the address of the present Sir Geoffrey;” 
and the girl chuckled trrimly as she went along. ” That old Daws 
will hardly risk losing his share of the plunder, even to oblige so 
sweet, so handsome, so soft-voiced a lady as you, madame!” and 
she laughed again as she pictured the meeting between her mistress 
and the lawyer. ” 1 wish 1 could be there to see!” 

Pauline stopped to speak to Jack as they crossed the hall after 
luncheon. 

‘‘ 1 shall lie down for the whole afternoon; my head is aching so 
dreadfully. What will you do with yourself, Jack? A wet day is 
such a terrible infliction in a country-house!” 

”1 shall work,” Jack answered. “It’s a week to-day since 1 
touched a brush; it will be a grand opportunity!” 

” Where shall you be?” 

” In the picture gallery. It will be quieter there than down- 
stairs.” 

” If 1 feel belter, 1 will come to you there by and by.” 

” 1 should rather advise your taking a good rest while you can 
get it,” Jack responded, in a matter-of-fact tone. 

Pauline set her teeth in her under-lip and left him, her mind 
racked with anxiety and fear. 

” At all cost I must be in a position to tell him something that 
will not be contradicted. I must find out how much those people 
know before to-night.” 

CHAPTER Xll. 

Pauline made an effort to look unlike herself; but hers was an 
individuality not easily hidden under a large plaid traveling wrap 
and a plain black bonnet and veil. 

At any rate, Mr. Daws was not deceived by them, and guessed 
who his visitor was the moment she was shown into his dusty little 
private office. 

Pauline’s spirits rose wonderfully as she saw how shabby was the 
little place in which these people carried on their business. She 
decided that she would first find out how much they knew that she 
wished unknown, then their ob.iect in advertising for Geoffrey 
Mailing; and, if it should be detrimental to her interests, then she 
would buy them over— dazzle these poor little grubbers by the offer 
of five hundred pounds. 

She forgot that Messrs. Daws & Raven were probably not the 
first movers in the matter, and that, if they failed toward their cli- 
ent, others would be found to take their place. All she thought of 
just then was the danger of losing Jack’s love. If she could only 
defer this hidden enemy’s action until she was his wife, she would 
chance the rest. 


A BITTEK RECKOliriiq’G. 


53 


She looked at the little man who rose from his writing on her en- 
trance, and her spirits tell again. This shabby person, with the iron- 
gray hair sticking all ways at once, llie bushy eyebrows, *broad 
mouth, square chin, and generally unwashed, unbrushed appear- 
ance, had a natural air of antagonism about him. Pauline felt de- 
pressed as she seated herself in the chair placed for her by the office 
boy. 

Mr. Daws remained standing, silent and motionless, with his 
bright, bead-like eyes watching her from under his heavy brows 
until she felt almost hysterical. 

She plucked at the fringe of her heavy shawl, cleared her throat 
OEce or' twice, regained her self-possession vsith an effort, and looked 
the hideous little man straight in the lace as she spoke. 

“ 1 have come with reference to an advertisement in this morn- 
ing’s ‘ Times.’ ” 

She paused, hoping he would say something that might give her 
an opening. The little man jerked his head abruptly, but made no 
remark. 

“ 1 believe you inserted it?” Pauline added. ' 

“ No. ” The syllable sounded sharp and clear. 

” No?” She looked incredulous for a moment, then said: “ Theh, 
if you did not, you know who did.” 

Mr. Daws jerked his head again. 

And you will favor me with their address.” 

“What for?” 

“ 1 wish to see them.” 

“ Why?” 

“ Why!” Pauline drew herself up proudly, for she was getting 
irritated, as she answered. “ 1 think that is my business.” 

“Not at all! It is ours'” 

She was just on the point of rising, and leaving the office in dig- 
nified silence, when she remembered that, if she lost that chance of 
finding out the real meaning of the advertisement, "she might not 
have another. 

“You will surely not refuse to let me have the address of the 
person who put that notice in this morning’s * Times,’ when 1 tell 
you that 1 came on Sir Geoffrey’s behalf, I am, in fact, a relative 
of his.” 

“ What relative?” 

“ His niece.” 

“ lie hasn’t a niece.” 

Without apparently noticing the assertion of the lawyer Pauline 
shifted her ground. 

“ What is the object of the advertisement?” she asked. 

“ You’ve read it, haven’t you?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Then you know. 

“ It says it is for Sir Geofirey’s * decided advantage.’ But how?” 

“ That’s my client’s business.” 

“Don’t you know?” 

“ Lawyers never reveal their clients’ affairs.” 

“ But, if you will neither tell me yourself nor give me your cli- 


54 A BITTER RECKONIKG. 

ent’s address, how can 1 find out tor Sir Geotfrey what the advan- 
tageMs?” 

“ Send him here hi mselt.” 

This was jlist what Pauline dreaded. 

“ He canT come. He’s very ill,’’ she told the lawyer. 

“ Then we must wait until he’s well.” 

You will absolutely tell nobody but himself what this wonder- 
ful advantage is?” 

” No one. ” 

Pauline rose from her chair, and they looked steadily at each other 
for a- tew seconds. She gathered her energies for her last effort. She 
placed her hand on the table between them, and leaned forward 
slightly. 

” What is your price for the address 1 want?” 

Daws’ eyes glittered. Two thoughts passed through his mind be- 
fore he answered: “ You have shown your tear by the offer ot a 
bribe; and Heaven save the French w;oman it i betray her, for you 
will certainly murder her!” Then he spoke: 

” The information you ask for is priceless.” 

‘M can give more than you think, peihaps. One hundred 
pounds!” A pause. “Two hundred — three hundred — four hun- 
dred— five!” 

” I h^ve answered; it is priceless.” 

She looked for one instant as if she would spring on him and tear 
the secret from him; then there came the sullen look of one beateh 
and baffled, and she turned without another word, went down the 
rickety stairs, and re-entered the cab which had been \vaiting for 
her. 

The little lawj^er stood still for a minute, listening to the creak- 
ing of the stairs under her tread ; then he turned and opened a door 
behind him, and from a dark closet emerged a human being even 
more unwashed and unbrushed than himself. 

The two men looked at each other for a moment; then, moved by 
a common feeling, they broke into peals of harsh laughter. They 
laughed loud and long, until, absolutely breathless, they sunk into 
their chairs. Then the dirtier of the two leaned over and shook 
Dawns’ hand heartily. 

” You’re right, Kaven. We can shake hands with ourselves. 
Our case is a better one than 1 thought. By Jove, you should have 
seen her face when 1 said Sir Geoffrey had no niece! She came to 
pump, did she? Well, she found the pump dry!” 

And they latighed again, until the boy in the outer room won- 
dered what piece of villainy was being concocted to make his mas- 
ters so unusually merry. 

* * * * * ^ * 

Pauline had counted confidently on making a bargain with Messrs. 
Daws & Raven. She believed that some unknown person had acci- 
dentally found out certain facts of her past life which she had 
pressing reasons for keeping secret, and she thought she had only 
to offer them a good price for their silence and the matter would 
end there, as no doubt the first and last object ot the advertisement 
was money. Now that she was once more in her own room. 


A BITTER RECKONIIsQ. 


55 


wrapped in a warm dressing-gown, and with leisure to think, she 
began to see that there was something more than the mere greed of 
gain prompting her unknown adversary, and she could not make 
the vaghest guess at' the real motive. 

Thi» lighting in the dark was alarming. If she only knew from 
what quarter to expect the attack, she might be able to make some 
sort ot resistance; as it was, there was nothing to be done but sit 
down and calmly await the onslaught. 

On one point onl}'’ could she make up her mind — she must hurry 
on her marriage. Let her once be Jack’s wife, and, no matter what 
phantoms should rise from the past to threaten her, she would at 
least be sure ot his love; for she would love him so dearly, she 
would be so gentle, so winning, that he would not be able to with- 
hold his love from her, even though he should grieve to find her 
other than he had thought. 

Still, she would make one more effort to unmask this hidden 
enemy; and, with this intention, she called Babette to her. 

“ Can 1 trust you in a matter that is almost life or* death to me, 
Babette? it I employ you to find out a secret tor me, will you keep 
the secret when it is found out? Will you serve me faithfully?” 

“ The interests of mademoiselle shall be almost as my own.” 

Pauline looked at her keenly for a moment; her instinct told her 
that she was not acting wisely in trusting this woman; yet what 
could she do? 

Babette’s face was absolutely impassive, as she stood waiting. 

” 1 suppose all the servants have seen the advertisement headed 
IVlallintord Park ’ in to-day’s ‘ Times 

“ Yes, mademoiselle.” 

And what do they say about it?” 

“ Some of them — Mrs. Perkins among others — believe that some- 
body has found a will of the late Sir Paul’s of a later date than the 
recognized one, in which he forgives his brother and makes him 
his heir.” 

Pauline looked relieved. 

” And what is your opinion, Babette?” 

” Mine, mademoiselle? 1 have none. It does not interest me — 
your English law; 1 trouble not myself about it.” 

‘‘ Do you know what 1 think, Babette?” 

No. How should 1, mademoiselle?” 

“ I will tell you. When 1 was young, very young, 1 made a fool 
of myself — nevermind how; but 1 did something that, if it were 
known now, would do me a great deal of harm. I believe that 
some ore has found out this folly of mine, and is trying to discover 
Sir Geoffrey Mailing’s address in the hope that he will assist to se- 
cure my downfall. 1 would give twenty pounds to find out how 
much or how little this person knows of my folly, and livould give 
fifty pounds to any one who would bring me face to fac with him.” 

Pauline paused; but the Frenchwoman did not raise her eyes from 
the ground lest they might betray her. 

“ 1 understand,” she said, quietly. 

” Now, will you try to find out who this is, and the extent of the 
knowledge possessed?” 

“ But how shall 1 begin, mademoiselle?” 


56 


A BITJER RECKQXIXG. 


“ Go to these lawyers to-morrow — see them yourself— try to get 
the advertiser’s address from them; tailing that, try to worm out 
the nnture of the promised advantage to Sir Geoffrey, and the means 
by'whicb it is to be obtained.” 

” I fear 1 shall come bach no wiser than 1 go; lawyers are too 
clever— they will know what 1 want. But 1 will go and do what 
1 can.” 

Pauline unlocked the little bronze box — the key had been found 
on the staircase on the morning following its loss — and took out tour 
five-pound notes. 

” Use the money carefully, or they may guess you are not doing 
this for yourself; and start as early as possible — 1 want you to be 
there before Sir Geoffrey. JSfow, make me look as well as you can 
— 1 feel Si^txxWy passee with all this anxiety.” 

In spite of all Babette’s skillful touches. Miss Mailing was not 
her usual brilliant self in appearance that evening. Jack saw it at 
once; and, unsuspicious though he was, he could not help connect- 
ing her nervous anxious manner with the much-talked-of advert- 
isement. 

” And so you really know nothing about it?” deaf old Larly Bal- 
lard was saying, when Jack entered the drawing-room, wdth the 
rest of the men, after dinner. ” Well, that’s curious! Sir Thomas 
and 1 both thought, when we read it, that you were going to be 
generous, and hand over half the estate to your badly- treated uncle 
the moment you attained your twenty-fifth birthday.” 

Miss Mailing’s guests found the evening unaccountably dull; and 
one and all heard the announcement of their carriages with evident 
relief. 

Jack felt curiously out of sorts; but he would not admit, even to 
himself, that it was his growing doubt of Pauline that was turning 
everything the seamy side out/ Bertha Collins was tired, and with 
N her usual candor, she announced the fact. 

“You are tired too, Pauline, 1 can see. Thank goodness I’m 
not a large landed proprietor! 1 could never sacrifice my feelings 
to the duties of my position, as you do, and entertain those poor nld 
fossils. Good-night, good people! Will you light my candle, Mr. 
Dornton?” 

In the general break-up Pauline managed to whisper in Jack’s 
ear: 

” 1 have something to say to you. Wait in the hovdoir.'*" 

Jack’s look conve 3 ^ed the answer she required, w\n\e his heart 
lightened. 

” She is going to tell me the cause of her fright this morning; and 
1 shall be ready to beg her pardon on my knees for doubting her,” 
he thought. 

It was rather a shock to him when Pauline joined him presently, 
locked the door, and walking stiaight up to him, said: 

” Do you remember my surprise when j^Ou fixed the last day of 
September for our wedding? Well 1 have altered m 3 " mind; 1 want 
you to make me your wife on the very day after my twenty-fifth 
birthday. That will be on the eighteenth — this day fortnight. 
Will you?” 

Jack looked down at Pauline, and wondered why he did not feel 


57 


A BITTER RECKOls^IisG. 

mndly overjoyed— as he would have felt a fortnight ago— at her 
proposal. He was puzzled by his own want of enthusiasm in the 
matter. 

“ You will tell me youi reason for wishing this/* he said; and 
while he spoke he formed the idea that it was in some way con- 
nected with her fear about the advertisement. 

“ I have no particular reason that I can give you. It is cruel to 
ask me for a reason. You will ask me next to give you a reason 
for loving you. 1 think it is because my heart hungers to have 
some one belonging to me and to belong to some one. Mine has 
been such a lonely life, Jack.” 

“Very well, dear. It shall be as you wish. Now 1 think you 
had better go to bed. You look quite worn out.** 

“ Kiss me, Jack!** 

The humble tone touched him, and he felt that he was not behav- 
ing well. He took her in his strong arms, saying, solemnly, as he 
did so: 

” Heaven bless 3 mu, dear! 1 hope we shall neither of us ever 
have cause to regret marrying in haste.*’ 

He stood just where she left him, absorbed in deep thought, for 
some minutes. He half convinced himself that he did not want to 
marry Miss Mailing at all ; yet he did not know what had caused 
the change in his feelings. Try as he would, he could not recall 
any single action of hers that had caused this alteration in him. 

” After asking a woman to be my wife, 1 can’t suddenly refuse 
to marry her because she goes white over a mysterious advertise- 
ment; nor can 1 throw her over because she is so awfully fond of 
me. After all, I believe there is such a thing as a woman being too 
fond of a fellow. I’m sure of one thing— and that is, that I am 
bad at heart; and the only thing for me to do is to get married with 
the best grace 1 can. All the same, 1 wish 1 had never seen this 
place at all!” 

' Thus he grumbled on his way up to his room, where he sat far 
on into the morning, marveling how he could for a moment have 
put Pauline before his little Ethel. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

* 

Ethel was certainly very courageous. She was also strong, 
5 mung and healthy, and had an unusual amount of selt-pride, all 
of which kept her from giving way under the load of grief that 
came upon her after Jack’s faithless behavior. But she felt her sor- 
row none the less deeply because she held it resolutely in check, 
and hid it from her father ’s sight. 

Just now her life looked very gray, for Capt. Pel ling had been 
compelled, sorely against his will, to pay a long-promised visit to 
an old friend: and Ethel was surprised to find how much she 
missed him. His unobtrusive kindness and bright good nature had 
often driven away the memory of Jack’s cruelty; and, without 
making it a personal matter, he had managed to give a new turn to 
her thoughts by claiming her interest in the much-talked-of work on 
Central Africa. 


58 


A BITTER RECKOKIInG. 


Now there were no morning caEs from him, no evening visits to 
the Wigwam, no business interviews with the publishers — in which 
her opinion was asked and deferred to in the matter ot illustrations- 
— to take her thoughts away from the one all-engrossing subject, 
and she began to think life was a huge mistake, and to wish herself 
well out of it, arguing foolishly that, because the clouds were dark 
and heavy above her just now, the future had no bright sunshine in 
store. 

Capt. Felling had been away nearly a week, and Ethel was feel- 
ing the daily inonotony of her life very irksome as she once rnore 
set about making her father's coffee— a task she dared not trust to 
anal her. 

There were letters on the table, but she did not feel particularly 
curious about them. She saw two thick, square, yellow envelopes, 
and concluded that they contained cards of invitation to some art 
conversazione. This was a form of amusement she did not care 
for; but her father enjoyed meeting people whose tastes corre- 
sponded with his own, and therefore they nearly always accepted 
such invitations. As she placed the coffee pot on the table, the 
writing on the envelope next to her own plate caught her eyes. 
The blood rushed to her face, and, with nervous haste, she picked 
up the envelope and opened it. She read the invitation card, and 
the flush— was it of hope?--faded slowdy, leaving an expression of 
sorrowful contempt on her fate. 

“ Poor Jack!” she sighed. ** 1 wonder if he thinks a few civili- ' 
ties of this kind will make amends for his conduct in the past? 
Does he imagine he can repa3^'me for the loss of his love by holding 
out the hand of frien illy patronage? Can he beliere it would give 
me pleasure to spend an evening in watching his attentions to his 
handsome hostess, to see his adoring eyes following her the whole 
night through?” She threw the card- from her with an impatient 
sigh. “ How foolish — how contemptibly foolish it is ot me to care 
so much after all this time! Perhaps the dad would like to see his 
old home again; and, as it does not really matter much whether 1 
go or not, 1 will do -us he wishes about it.” 

As she heard lier father’s step on the stairs, she turned as brightly 
as usual toward him to say “ Good-morning.” Then she held his 
envelope behind her playfully, saying: 

‘‘ A thousand guesses, and you wiil not gu(?ss where this letter is 
from, papa!” 

” 1 shall not make one — so tell me ” 

“It is an invitation to Mallingford for the seventeenth of this 
month.” 

jVlr. Mallett’s face darkened with a sudden dread. 

“ To Mallingford? Fi’om Lord Summers, is it?” 

“ No, from Miss Mailing herself, for a ball.” 

“A ball!” he repeated. ” Why in the world should Miss ’Mai- 
ling invite me to a ball?” He looked at the envelope curiously, 
and then said: “ It is addressed to ‘ G. Mallett, Esq.,’ and in Jack 
Dornton’s writing! Oh, 1 begin to understand!” he went on, in a 
voice of genuine relief, as he look the card from the enreiope. “ 1 
feared for the moment that Summers had been doing a kindness, as 
he calls it, and persuaded Pauline Mailing to invite her poor rela- 


A BITTER RECKONINO. 


59 


tives to her omnium gatherum. But this civility is evidently due to 
Dorntons good nature, and is Bent in all good faith to ‘ the Mai - 
letts, old friends of mine,’ as he would say in describing us.” 

“ Who is Summers, papa?” 

“ Lord Summers is your cousin’s guardian.” 

“Of coilrse—l remember— the kind-looking old man we met at 
the Exhibition last May.’' 

“Yes. I’ve been in constant dread ever since that unfortunate 
meeting that he would seek me out and try to do something for 
me. That was why 1 was so annoyed when you told him you 
copied in the galleries; 1 thought he might pounce on you and worm 
our address out of you.” 

“ He would hardly do that, papa, if he knew you did not wish 
Him to know it.” 

“ My dear, you don’t know Summers. He has the reputation 
tor being a kindly old imbecile, and, under cover of his supposed 
kindness and imbecility, thinks himself privileged to take unpar- 
donable liberties with everybody.” 

“Do you think he would tell Miss Mailing about my copying at 
the galleiies, papa?” 

Etliel put the question with a sudden interest. 

“ No doubt of it; he is an inveterate talker.” 

Ethel had a sudden conviction that Miss INIalling had used this 
information to obtain their address, it Lord Summers had not, and 
believed she had at last found out to whom she was indebted for 
her anonymous letter. This belief did not increase her desire to go 
to Mallingtord; but she held to her resolution to leave the decisioii 
in her father’s hands. 

“ Do you think Lord Summers knows that you get your living by 
giving drawing-lessons?” 

Mi\ Mai let t flinched at the question. His old pride of birth and 
position still clung to him; but he had a still nobler pride. 

“ If he troubles to think about me at all,” he answered — “ and 
most likely he does— he would guess that 1 did something of the 
sort, for he always encouraged my daubing in the old days, and he 
used to say that, if 1 had been a poor man, 1 should have been a 
good artist.” 

It was so seldom that Mr. Mailed touched on the past, and Ethel 
was so anxious to know something of it, that she now tried to con- 
tinue the discussion. 

“ 1 should think you were proud not to have to go to your brother 
for help, papa. ” 

His brow contracted, and his lips tightened. 

“ Go to Paul for help! 1 would have let you and your mother 
die of slow starvation before 1 would have gone through such a 
useless degradation.! He would not Have given me a crumb from 
the servants’ table!” 

“ What a terrible disposition! I’m glad you’re not like your 
brother, dad.” 

“ Well, 1 think I am in some things. The difference is that 1 am 
not so quick to take offense. Let me once feel that I am really 
wronged, and 1 am as unforgiving as he was.” 

“ 1 don’t quite believe that.” 


60 


A BITTER RECKONING. 


** Because you’ve never seen me really annoyed. But now about 
this invitation. Do you want to go to the ball?” 

1 don’t care one bit about it, it you don’t want to go, dad.” 

” 1 don’t care about the ball either; but 1 should like you to see 
the old place, Ethel. If we were to go to the ball, 1 should most 
likely run up against some one who would remember me as Geoffrey 
Mailing, and there would be quite a little sensation over my reap» 
pearance; but this invitation entitles us to call on Miss Mailing, in 
any case. Send an acceptance, my dear; we can follow it up by an 
excuse on the morning of the seventeenth. In the meantime we 
will run down one day and leave our cards, and take a look round 
iust as ordinary strangers would — and no one will think we are any- 
thing else. ” 

” Very well, dad. Aren’t you going to read your other letter?”^ 

Ethel was glad the question was settled in this way, for she, too, 
wished to see the old house t^at should in justice lutve been her fa- 
ther’s. Mr. Mallett opened the other letter and threw it across to 
her. 

” Bead it out, Ethel. It’s from Felling. I’ve talked so much 
that I’ve no time to eat.” 

Ethel read the letter, which ran as follows; 

” ‘ My dear Mallett, *^1 send some birds by to-night’s train— 
hope they will arrive all right. 1 am tired of this place, but can’t 
get away under the promised fortnight. My old friend has taken a 
wife since 1 last saw him. Said wife has three sisters at present 
staying with her; and, as they are all of the genus ‘ blue-stocking,’ 
my life has been a burden to me since my arrival here, by reason 
of their persevering pursuit of knowledge— African knowledge in 
particular.’ ” 

” Pursuit of Felling’s three thousand a year would be nearer the 
truth,” murmured Mr. Mallett, sotto wee, 

*V Sport is excellent,’ ” Ethel continued, reading, ” ‘ but just the 
least bit monotonous. The house is full of pleasant people— and 
yet 1 miss your society more than 1 could have thought possible; 
and 1 am really anxious to get back to our work. Tell Miss Mai- 
ling not to forget her promise — ’ ” 

“ What promise was that?” Mr. Mallett asked, with his mouth 
full. 

‘‘I’m not quite sure what he means, unless — ” Ethel blushed 
slightly, 

” Never mind; finish the letter to yourself, my dear, for 1 must 
be oft directly.” 

After seeing her father off and finishing the letter, Ethel did not 
feel altogether happy. She was afraid Capt. Felling had set too 
high a value on her words, and she tried to recall exactly what she 
had said when he had called to sa}^ good-by. What had really 
occurred was this. When Ethel put her hand into Felling’s, he held 
it while he said : 

” 1 wish 1 could flatter myself by believing you would miss me a 


A BITTER RECKOIS^ING. 61 

little while 1 am away, Miss Mallett; but perhaps it would be a 
welcome miss, tor 1 know I’m a terrible bore sometimes.” 

He looked so wistful that Ethel felt quite a thrill of sympathy for 
him, and, on the impulse of the moment, responded: 

” Em sure 1 shall miss you, and 1 shall be glad to see you back 
again. ” 

And Felling had left her with a face so glorified with delight that 
she had feared and wondered continually what such glorification 
might mean, and had alternately blamed herself for her impulsive 
words, and him for his misinterpretatioii of them. 

Pauline was rather staggered a couple of days later when she re- 
ceived affirmative replies from Mr^ and Miss Mallett; but she was 
in such a whirl of excilement by this time that so small a peril as a 
visit from her uncle and cousin passed by unheeded. 

The advertisement had now been repeated three times in the 
“ Times.” The last insertion contained an offer of twenty pounds 
for the present address of ” Sir G. M., late of Mallingfoid.” In 
her dread of losing Jack, Pauline took this to mean that the ad- 
vertiser had heard of her approaching marriage, and had offered this 
rev/ard in order to bring matters to a crisis in time to prevent it. 

Since her interview with Jack on the night of her return from 
town, he had been more tender in his manner toward her: his quiet, 
gentle thoughtfulness had been so much fuel to the flame of her 
passionate love; she realized that to lose him now would make the 
rest of her life a blanK, and she fought desperately against the fate 
that seemed to threaten her. 

Babette went up to town as arranged, to see Daws & Raven, and 
came back arching her brows, shrugging her shoulders, and gesti- 
culating freely. All Pauline could get from her was that all law- 
yers were ” beasts,” and she would not go to be so insulted again 
for a hundred pounds. 

Miss Mailing took courage from the fact that Her uncle had not 
yet seen the advertisement, arguing that, if he had not seen it on 
the first two days of its insertion," the chances were that he did not 
read the “ Times,” and might therefore never see it at all. 

But, on the other hand, she gauged the determination of her un- 
known enemy hy this offer of twenty pounds tor her nucleus ad- 
dress; and her heart sunk as she weighed the chances for and against 
Sir Geoffrey’s being brought into contact with this person, who she 
felt sure held information that would deprive her of position, 
wealth, and lover at one blow. 

It was now the eighth of September, and she was to be married on 
the eighteenth. Babette was the only member of the household 
who had been taken into her mistress’ confidence with regard to* 
her approaching marriage, and the vivacious Frenchwoman was 
delighted at the prospect of going up to town every day between 
then and the eighteenth, to see after the piles of new finery indis- 
pensable at such a time. 


62 


A BITTER RECKOXIKG. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Babette sat opposite to Mr. Daws the grimy, dust eaten den 
that he dignified by the title of “ office.” She was in a violent 
rage. Her eyes flashed, and every now and again her clinched hand 
came down with a thud on the table to give point to her already 
emphatic speech. 

‘‘ It is now six days that the advertisement has been in your news- 
paper, and you tell me you have had no answer of any sort in all 
that time but madame herself? Then I tell you 1 do not believe 
you. You have not told me the truth. It is a conspiracy between 
you and that other little horror of a Raven to heep the aftair in your 
own hands and to do me out of my part. 1 believe that you havp 
already seen tliis Sir Geoilrey, and that you liave se^it him off on a 
wild-goose chase to search all the grave-yards of Spain for the tomb 
of his niece. For this one time you have been too clever. When 1 
showed you the picture of Pauline Mailing’s tomb, 1 did not tell 
you that, before showing it to you* I had removed the name of the 
town where it was taken and ol the artist who took it. I have the 
names carefully copied, and I keep them to myself until 1 can show 
them to Sir Geoff re}^ personally. 1 will not trust my best cards in 
the hands of such a cheat as you. Monsieur Daws!” 

The clinched hand came down with the word ” cheat,” and she 
leaned a little forward, glaring at the small, dirty man who sat 
curled up in a large arm-chair on the other side of the table. 

He listened without moving a muscle. When she paused he 
smiled a slow smile of gratification. 

“ You are about the fiist client I’ve ever had do me justice, and 
1 respect your shrewdness. What a pity such a head-piece was 
given to a woman! But you are wrong all the same about our 
having found Sir Geoffrey. Why don’t you carry the thing 
through yourself? You have the address of the photographer 
who took that touching little picture of a grave, you say? Well, 
then, what is more easy than' to employ a detective to run over to 
the place, and gather on the spot from eye-witnesses the particulars 
of Pauline Mailing’s death, aud also procure the certificate of 
death? This young woman retires gracefully, and Sir Geoffrey 
Mailing walks into his own.” 

” But if we could not find him?” 

“Bosh! The wdiole of England will ring with the storv. He 
must hear of it it he’s alive.” 

“ W^hat would it cost to send a detective, as you say?” 

“ Well, you would have to put a fitty-poand note in his hand to 
start with. He would have to pay his way handsomely to get the 
information wanted.” 

“ I have no such money in England; 1 should have to send to 
France for it. It would take four or live da3^s to get it here, and 
then it would be too late for one part of my plan. Will you lend 
me the money?” 

“ I lend you fifty pounds! You must bo mad! 1 have already 


A BITTER RECKONING, 


65 


granted you five long interviews willio?it charging you a farthing — 
the first time in my life 1 ever did such a thing. 1 give j^ou my 
advice gratis, in consideration ot possible profit in the futpre; but 
money is another thing. It we could find Sir Geoffrey 1 might 
advance the money to him; but, until we aie sure he is alive and 
willing to go into the business with us, ‘ caution ’ is the word, so 
far as Daws & Raven are concerned.'’ 

Babette bit viciously at her lip. and Daws watched her curiously. 

“ Wih you tell me why you are so anxious to h firry the thing 
on?” he asked, presently. “ We can always pop on her when we 
are prepared with our facts. Why not send for the money from 
France, and wait quietly until your agent returns from Spain loaded 
with proofs of the imposture? You have the game in your own 
hand; you can afford to wait.” 

“ And let her marry Monsieur Dorntou?’/ 

” Why not? Are jou sweet on him yourself?” 

She laughed a shrill laugh of contempt. 

“But you are stupid!” she said, scornfully. Then her voice 
altered to a low hiss, and her face clouded over with hate as she 
went on : “1 will tell you why 1 wish to stop this marriage — because 
she~this impostor —loves that young Dointon, loves him better 
than her own life, belter than her position, her riches, everything; 
because the loss of all the rest would be as nothing to her so. long as 
she could have him for her husband; and because my heart hungers 
to take from her everything she holds dear. It would be only half 
a job to take away her possessions; I must rob her of all that makes 
her life worth living, and then 1 can die content! For 1 hate her— 
hate her— hate her!* 

“ Bv Jehoshaphat!” muttered Daws to himself. “ And when does 
this marriage take placo?” he asked, aloud. 

T'he question recalled Babette to herself, and she came back un- 
willing, it seemed, from the contemplation of her revenge. 

“ Ah, that is it!” she cried — “ that is my despair, my anguish,, 
my misery! The marriage takes place on the eighteenth, and it is 
already the thirteenth! But five days more and she will be his wife, 
and half my revenge will be impossible. 1 long to make her suffer 
so much that 1 swear to you, if my death would prevent the wed- 
ding— if 1 could be sure of it — 1 would gladly kill myself as I sit 
here!” 

“I’m afraid you’ll have to give up that part of your plan, and be 
satisfied with dragging her from her position. Unless Sir Geoffrey 
turns up to-day, or to-morrow at the latest, we could not get the 
information we want in time to stop the marriage. I’m sorry to 
disappoint you; but 1 think the wedding, will have to take place in 
spile of you, ma’m'selle,” 

Babette looked worn and fagged when she reached Mallingford 
about three o’clock. She walked listlessly across the platform to 
the conveyance in waiting for her — for it was a good five-mile walk 
from the nearest station to the paik — when, just as she was mount- 
ing to her seat by the side of the groom, after placing the parcel of 
costly lace— the object ot her journey — in safety, she heard somo 
one behind her asking for a fly to go to Mallingford Park. 

She turned to look at the inquirer, and tor a moment she stood 


€4 


A BITTER RECKONING. 


staring at tall, well-bred looking man, evidently on the wrong side 
ot fitly, with a sweet-laced girl of eighteen on his arm. She recog- 
nized the girl as the young lady she had followed from the Museum 
to her home, and whose name she had discovered from the neigh- 
bori^ig tradespeople by her mistress’ orders about two months be- 
fore. Then she remembered posting a letter to this young lady tor 
'her mistress, and next she recalled having seen Dornton’s letter to 
the same person a lew days later, and, in a blind fashion, without 
knowing why, she connected their appearance at Mallingford with 
those letters, and a wild hope sprung up in her heart that this 
elderly aristocrat and his pretty daughter had come to Mallingford 
to help on her purpose of preventing Miss Mailing’s marriage. . 

Babette was soon deposited at Mallingford House. She m.ade 
herself presentable, and went down to Miss Mailing’s boudoir on the 
ground flooi, on the pretense ot discussing her morning’s purchases 
with her mistress, but really with the determination to hang about 
the neighborhood of the reception-rooms, ancf witness— if possible, 
overhear— the interview^ between Miss Mailing and these Malletts. 

The windows ol the boudoir overlooked a long stretch of the prin- 
cipal drive. When Babette reached the room it was empty. She 
placed herself to watch for the arrival of the fly from the village. 
She saw it come up the long avenue and slop at the main entrance. 
Then she went to the hall and busied herself looking for an im- 
aginary missing shawl among the numherless wraps lying about. 
The hall-porter, for some unknown reason, was not at his post, and 
an inexperienced footman informed Mr. Mailett that Miss Mailing 
was not at home. 

Babette, thinking she saw the chance ot help from these people 
gradually slipping away, came forward boldly. 

“Are you sure you are right in denying Miss Mailing to this 
gentleman, Philip?” she asked, in a low voice. “ 1 think you have 
made a mistake.” 

The youn^ man bowed to the superior authority of Miss Mailing’s 
confidential maid, and then left the matter in her hands. Babette 
turned to Mr. Malletl. 

“ If you will follow me, monsieur, 1 will see if Miss Mailing has 
returned from her drive.” 

She took them to the boudmr^ stood for a moment in thought, and 
then flew off to the picture-gallery. As she expected, she found 
Jack and Miss Mailing in the deep recess of a window at the far 
ehd. She announced: 

“ Mr. and Miss Mailett in your boudoir, mademoiselle!” 

Pauline sprung" from her chair and stood glaring at Babette as if 
she were a messenger from other world. The words “ Sir Geoffrey ” 
rose to her lips; but she remembered in time that his individuality 
was uot known to any one but herself, and she checked the name 
with an effort. 

“ i am not at honce,” she told her maid. “1 left word to that 
effect.” 

“Yes, so they said, mademoiselle; but 1 happened to be in the 
hall, and 1 thought 4 heard the gentleman ask for Monsieur Dorn- 
ton; so 1 offered to see if he was in. ” 

Every nerve in Pauline’s body w as vibrating and a sense of suffo- 


A BITTER RECKONING. 


65 


cation canoe over her. Had this man at last seen the advertisement 
or been told ot it? Perhaps, too, he had been to those dreadful 
people Daws & Raven, and obtained from them the information that 
would ruin her. She turned to Jack eagerly. 

“ Don’t see them, Jack!” she said pleadingly. They will keep 
you all tlie afternoon, and we are so comfortable.” 

Jack felt that his position was hardly pleasant. If they had 
asked for him he ought to go to them. Rut still he admitted that ' 
Pauline's objection was quite natural. Tie could understand her 
wish that he should not meet Ethel more than was necessary. 

” Very well,” he acquiesced. ” Not at home, Babette.” 

The Frenchwoman retraced her steps down the long gallery, with 
a look of deep disappointment on her face. She had expected so 
much from the appearance of these people. She had built on the 
abrupt termination of this hateful engagement through them, and 
now the chance was lost, utterly lost, just because she could not 
bring about the desired interview. 

This disappointment, coming after her morning’s failure at Daws’ 
office, broke down her spirit altogether, and for the first time she 
began to believe that she must resign herself to the inevitable— that 
the marriage could not be prevented, and she must be satisfied with 
the poor revenge ot depriving Pauline of her unlawful possessions. 

' She clinched her teeth with defeated rage as she entered the 
houdoir, 

‘‘No, madame has not yet returned,” she said, and held the door 
for them to pass out into the gallery. 

But in that moment of her utter despair the tide turned and car- 
ried her on to speedy victory. She preceded Mr. and Miss Mallett 
until they reached the central hall, and then handed them over to 
the footman. She stood watching them as they re-entered the hired 
carriage. As they drove oft some one plucked at her from behind. 
She turned round in surprise to meet Mrs. Perkins, whom she had 
passed in the corridor, outside the houdoir ^ superintending the ar- 
ranging of fresh flowers in the window-stand. The housekeeper's 
usually florid face was quite pale, and she jerked out her words in 
a curious, breathless way: 

‘‘ Who are those people you have just shown out?” 

” Mr. and Miss Mallett.” 

” The}" are nothing of the kind! The gentleman is Sir Geoflirey 
Mailing, Bai’onet, brother to Sir Paul and uncle to our present mis- 
tress, and the young lady is like enough to the family to be his 
daughter.” 

‘‘ Mon JDieu! But are you certain?” 

‘‘ As certain as that 1 am Caroline Perkins.” 

The Frenchwoman stood looking at her with a gigantic triumph 
in her face as she muttered : 

” At last— at last!” 


3 


66 


A' BITTER RECKOA^IXG. 


CHAPTER XV, 

“ Will Mr. Mallett call on Messrs. Daws & Raven, at their 
offices, 16 ]jeman Street, E. C., between two and three o’clock to- 
day? They have private information of the greatest value to im 
part to him.” 

Ethel leaned over her father’s shoulder and read the telegram. 

” What can it mean, papa? It’s very mysterious. Shall you 
go?” 

” I think so. 1 can do no harm by going, it 1 do no good.” 

” 1 wish you would take me with you. 1 shall be in such a state 
of excitement until you come back.” 

” 1 could not think of taking you to a place 1 kuow nothing of,, 
my dear. It might be inconvenient to have 3 'ou with me.” 

” Of course! 1 was only joking, dear.” 

Mr. Mallett turned the telegram and the envelope over and over; 
but there was no further information ot any, sort to be gained from 
them. 

Ethel looked across at him in surprise. 

” Why, papa, 1 believe 3^011 are excited and curious! It is the first 
time 1 ever saw you so interested.” 

” Yes, I am curious. It strikes me as odd that, after living an 
uneventful life for the last twenty years, 1 should one day break my 
vow as to never revisiting Mallingford Park unless as its owner, and 
the next day receive this curious message. 1 dare say it is only a 
coincidence; but still it is st’^ange, and 1 can’t help connecting the 
one event with the other.” 

Mr. Mallelt's pupils were more than once surprised during that 
morning by a joke from their drawing-master. The usuall 3 ' impas- 
sive, methodical teacher ot tone and perspective, whose remarks 
had never strayed for one moment from the purpose of his visits 
within the recollection of his oldest pupil, entered the room to-day 
with a smile, enlivened the usually silent lesson with amusing 
criticisms on the students' efiorls, and left with a frivolous remark 
that set the whole class in a roar. And Mr. Mallett walked off to 
his next lesson with a more erect carriage and a firmer tread than 
had been habitual to him for ten years past. 

Again and again he had chidden himself for the strange elation 
that had taken possession ot him. Again and again he tried to rea- 
son himself out of the childish belief that some great good fortune 
was coming upon him. The belief had fixed itself in his mind, and 
not all the calm reasoning in the world would displace it. 

Surely there was some strangely exhilarating quality in the at- 
iiiosphere this morning, for Ethel too went about her business in a 
brisker manner than she had lately. Her nerves \^ ere a little bit 
unstrung too, for, when about three o’clock there came a very de- 
cided rat-a-tat-tat at the door, she was worked up to such a slate ot 
extreme expectation that she almost shrieked aloud. {She ran to her 


G7 


A BITTER RECKOis^IKG. 

' usual post of observation, the ^stair-head, and was surprised, pleased, 
sorry, disturbed, all in a moment, at the sight of Captain Felling. 

In the engrossing excitement caused by the morning’s telegram 
they had quite forgotten he Was to return "to-day. 

“ If Miss Mallett is engaged, I will not come up, as Mr. Mallett 
is not in. Will you let her know I’m here, and say I will not in- 
trude if she is busy?'’ he vpas saying as she leaned over the baluster. 

There was something in his speech which struck Ethel as unusual 
— want of confidence, an irresolution ver7 unlike his general hearty, 
straightforward style. She wondered what it could mean, and a 
feeling of shyness as to meeting him came over her. She was 
almost tempted to send him a message to the eflect that she could 
not see him just then; but she had a horror of deception, and in- 
deed she was really glad to see him again. 

A few seconds later she was shaking hands with him, and her 
shyness had completely vanished. He looked at her attentively, 
and then remarked : 

“ How well you look!” 

‘^Your tone almost implies that you are more surprised than 
pleased,” Ethel laqghed. 

He looked rather disturbed at such a construction being placed 
upon his words. 

‘‘Indeed no; I am really glad to see you so improved. But 1 
thought perhaps you had felt the relief of my absence, that that was 
the reason of the change, and the thought was not fiattering to my 
self-love.” 

Ethel had reasons for not wishing him to know how she had 
missed him, for she feared he might put a higher value on the fact 
than it was worth, so she carefully avoided making the answer he 
wished. 

‘‘You too have not suffered,” she said, lightly. “ You look bet- 
ter for your change.” 

” That must be fancy on your part, Miss Mallett, because 1 
always look well. 1 have not really had a very good time of it.” 

“lam sorry! How was it? Wasn’t the sport good?” 

“Excellent!” 

Some instinct warned Ethel not to inquire further why his visit 
had not been a pleasant one. Things did not seem quite as they 
w(;re before he went away, and she felt nervous and uncomfortable. 
She knew that Captain Felling would ask her to be his wife if he 
thought she would accept him. She knew also that she would 
never love again as she had loved Jack, and she knew her father 
would be delighted if she could like this man enough to marry 
him. But she was perplexed as to what course she ought to pur- 
sue, and, being undecided, she made every eftort to put off the de- 
cisive moment. 

After the question as to sport, there was an awkward little pause, 
and Ethel felt her heart quicken with dread. Shaking herself free 
from this feeling, she turned to her visitor. 

“ You have not asked why papa is not at home,” she remarked, 
with a determination to avoid personal topics. 

“ To be sure! It is Saturday! 1 had forgotten! And why is he 
not at home?” 


68 


A BITTER RECKONIXG. 

1 will show you why;” and she fetched the telegram and gave 
it to him. 

” How mysterious I Quite like an event in a novel! Has Mr. 
Malletl any idea as to what it means?” 

“ Not a bit! I’m expecting him home soon; and then we shall 
hear all about it.” 

‘‘ In Which case I had better be off. It may be private family 
business, you know.” 

‘‘ 1 don’t think papa w’ould mind your knowing. He looks upon 
you as a sincere friend.” 

‘‘ That is a real compliment from him.” 

” It is indeed. You are the only friend he has cultivated within 
my memory.” 

Poor Ethel! She had unwittingly brought down an avalanche 
upon herself. 

” You see he has a treasure beyond price in his keeping, and he 
guards it jealously.” 

For a uioment the drift of his remark did not strike her; she con- 
cluded lie was alluding to the secret of her father’s birth, which 
she had tliought was known only to Lord Summers. She was sur- 
prised that he should know the secret; but she said nothing, and 
quietly awaited an explanation. 

Felling was slightly disconcerted by her unexpected silence and 
her inquiring gaze. He felt that he had committed himself in some 
way, and honestly regretted that he had been so indiscreet. He 
smoothed out every finger ot the glove he held, devoting much at- 
tention to the task of removing the creases from the extreme tip^. 
That done, he looked up again, and met her eyes still questioning 
him; and, though he would have done much to put off the question 
that might end their friendship, he felt that he had gone too far to 
recede, and therefore went on recklessly. 

Mr. Mallett is well aware that, if a man meets you often, he 
must learn to love you.” 

He stopped abruptly after this, and noticed the quick flush that 
overspread her face; then, impelled by an irresistible impulse, he 
continued: 

” 1 know 1 ought not to say this to you without first speaking to 
Mr. Mallett; but he has been so kind to me that 1 have allowed my- 
self to hope he would not object to me as a son-in-law^, be5mnd the 
one great objection that applies to every one — 1 should rob him of 
you. Yet 1 would not even do that entirely. He should have his 
own rooms in our home, and he could be with us as often and as 
long as he liked. 1 would make you both so happy, if you would 
let me. I would cherish you so tenderly and take such Oiire ot you 
that an anxious thought should never come near you, and the 
trouble in your face which 1 can not help seting sometimes should 
die from sheer inanition.” 

He paused, whilst Ethel sat quite still, her hands pressed closely 
together in her lap, the flush still burning in her cheek. He yearned 
to take her into his arms and hold her there; but, reading distress 
in her burning cheeks and averted eyes, he determined not to press 
for an answer to-day. 

'' I’m afraid I’ve worried and distressed you. I’m very sorry. 


A BITTER RECKOKI^IG.^ 


69, 

1 won’t trouble about it any more just now. Try to think the best 
you can of what 1 have said, and let us go on for a time as we have 
been, good triends. He rose from his seat, and held out hia hand 
to her. 

Ethel wa^ touched more than she thought was possible by the 
unselfishness ot his words. He had made no allusion to his own 
feelings or sufferings, yet she knew the suspense he would undergb 
it matters were left as they stood then. She resolved to tell him 
everything, and let him decide. 

“ Don’t go tor a few minutes, please,^’ she besought'him, nerv- 
ously. “ 1 have something 1 ought to tell you.” 

“ Don’t tell me anything, if the telling of it will cause you pain,” 
he said, eagerly. 

“ It won’t worry me so much to tell you as tO ‘have you not know 
it,” she responded, with a quick, grateful glance. 

He sat opposite to her, and patiently, yet anxiously, awaited her 
words. 

“ I have loved someone else very dearly,” she said, slowly and 
earnestly, at the same time watching the effect of her words. 

He looked gravely and pityingly at the pretty, flushed face; but 
there were no signs of surprise as he answered: 

“ 1 guessed as much.” 

“ You— guessed?” — with a look of surprise. 

“ Ves; you must forgive me for having played the spy: but 1 
loved you so dearly from the first moment i saw you that'l could 
not help watching you, and 1 found it out.” 

And still you wish to—” 

“ Make you my wife?” he finished, eagerly. “Most emphatic- 
ally — yes!” 

“Ah, but you don’t know — ” 

“1 know that whoever is to blame for the breaking oft* ot this 
previous engagement, it is not you; and, in spite of the fact of your 
having promised in the past to be the wife ot another, 1 am longing: 
to hear you repeat that promise to me. If you can bring yourself 
to do it, I will try my best to deserve my great happiness by my 
devotion to you.” ' ^ 

Again the thought rose in Ethel’s heart, “df 1 had only known 
this man before I knew J^ck!” All she could find to say was: 

“ How good 3 mu aref’ 

“ Nay, 1 am afraid there is no great goodness in me; but 1 woidd 
try to be all goodnesss to you. Will you let me try?” 

Ethel was anxious to impress upon him that there still lingered a 
resrret in her heart for the past; but she knew not how to convey 
her thoughts. She felt that it would not be honest to accept him 
without telling him exactly how little she had to give in return for 
his great love. 

“ May 1 try?” he asked again. 

Should she confess that she still suflered from the pangs of 
slighted love? There was a short struggle in her mind between pride 
and honesty. The latter prevailed, and she rose from her' seal, and 
crossed to the fire-place. She held the mantel-board firmly by one 
hand, and then, regarding him steadily, she said, without a pause 
or tremor ; 


70 


A BITTER RECKOXINa. 


“You do not understand wliat it is 1 want you to know. It is 
only very lately that my engagement with some one else was broken 
off — so lately, indeed, that! have not yet recovered from it. 1 wish 
you to bear this in mind— that 1 am still sorry about it. At the 
same time 1 know you have done me a great honor, tor 1 think you 
are true and honorable, and 1 believe that if X.had time to leave 
this sad memory behind me, 1 could honestly accept you, and bring 
not only my gratitude, but my love to our home; as things are just 
now 1 feel it wM)uld not be right to say simply 1 would be your wife 
without letting you know how it is w"ith me. ” 

Poor Ethel! Her heart was laid- bare now, and she trembled vio- 
lently. Felling came over to her and warmly took both her hands 
in his. 

“ 3ly pearl among women!” he exclaimed. “ My pure, truthful, 
little love!” 

Her hands trembled in his firm clasp, as he led her to her father’s 
arm-chair and went down upon his knees, still holding her hands 
tightly. 

“ Now listen to me, my darling, and, when 1 say anything of which 
you disapprove, stop me. 1 shall see your father and explain every- 
thing to him; i shall claim the privilege of doing what 1 can to 
make your lifoa little brighter and pleasanter in the present. 1 shall 
not talk of love to you in any way; but 1 shall let you see a good 
deal oi me in one sliape or another. 1 will give you plenty of time 
to get over your present sorrow, and 1 shall not look upon you as 
my affianced in the* meantime; but one day. a few months hence, 1 
shall come again and ask the same question that 1 have asked to- 
day, anti you shall answer me as truthfully as you have done to- 
day, and then the matter shall be settled one way or the other. 
Should'you find that you can not think of me in any warmer way 
than as a friend, 1 shall pack up my traps and be off on another 
wild-goose expedition, and relieve you permanently of my presence. 
Is there anything you object to in that programmed” 

“ Nothing, except that you give everything on the chance only of 
a return.” 

“lam content to risk that; 1 would risk my life to make sure of 
it; so a few months spent pleasantly and profitably will not be a 
very great sacrifice, 1 am going now.” He looked at her with 
something in his eyes she did not understand, and though he said 
he was going, he made no move from' his place on the rug; then he 
went on, “ When 1 leave this room, you will say good-by to Alec 
Felling the lover, foraome months, and to-morrow, when you come 
with Mr. Mallett to the Wigwam, you will meet Alec Felling the 
friend only.” He stopped again for a moment, as it he feared to 
say what was in his heart; then he added, “ As it is to be a long 
farewell, may I ask one favor — that you will sweeten my life by a 
kiss from your lips?” 

Ethel, blushing, made no reply; and the captain, leaning for- 
ward, his face all aglow with feeling, kissed her with a gentle; lin- 
gering kiss. , 

“ Heaven bless and keep you, my darling!” 

With these words ringing in her ears, Ethel watched the captain 
as he hastened from the room. 


A BITTER RECKONING. 


71 


\ 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Mr. Mallett, in evident impatience, walked up and down the 
confined space between Daws’ otfice-table and the door. Daws had. 
refused to say anything in the absence of the lady for whom he 
was acting, and whom he expected momentarily. 

It was now ten minutes past three, ami Mr. Mallett had; been in 
the stuffy little den three quarters of an hour, and he was getting 
tired of waiting. Once more he looked at his watch and glanced 
at the urrkemptiron-gray hair of Daws as lie leaned over his writing- 
pad. Tiie monotonous scratch, scratch of the pen somehow irritated 
him^ it was annoying to see this man go on sp tranquilly with his 
6ccupation wbilq he was tormented by exciting anticipations. His 
impatience at last got the better of him. 

“ 1 think 1 must wish you good-day. Your client evidently does 
not mean to keep the appointment, and my time is too precious to 
be wasted in this way.” 

Ashe spoke, the door opened behind,him; and, turning round, 
he saw Babette, breathless and flushed, unceremoniously enter the 
room. He recognized her at once as the maid he had seen at Mai- 
lingford Park on the previous day, and he turned a dusky red as the 
thought that he had been entrapped into some backstair intrigue 
against his niece passed through his mind. 

Mdn Dim! But 1 am fortunate to find you here still! 1 
feared you would depart before my arrival.”^ 

Mr. Mallett bowed slightly, and waited for her to go on. 

“ Ah, 1 see,” cried the woman— “ you are of the Mailing family 
— he winced — “and you have amazement in your heart that L, a 
liiean domestic, shoutd dare to make an assignation with you! 
But you will have more amazement when 1 tell you why 1 do this.” 
Then, turning to the lawyer, sher asked, “ Aou have told nothing?” 

“Nothing.” ' 

“ Good! I am warm with haste,” she remarked,* as she loosened 
her heavy mantle of cloth and beads. “ Will monsieur not sit?” 

“1 should prefer not until 1 know what 1 have been brought 
here for.” 

“ Eh Men!'* She seated herself, and drew an ordinary envelope 
from the front of her dress. “ Do you know your niece. Miss Mai- 
ling, ver}’’ well?” 

Mr. Mallett drew himself up proudly. 

“ I came here to receive information, not to answer questions. If 
you have brought me here thinking 1 should help in any scheme 
against my niece, you are mistaken. If you have any news to im- 
part which concerns me, 1 will listen ; if not, I will wish you good- 
^fteinoon.” 

lie look his hat from the table, and turned to the door. 

“ But one moment! I have news to tell you — news that concerns 
yourself very nearly. What would you do if 1 were to tell you 
that this woman who calls herself your niece is no niece at all, that 


72 


A BITTEK KECKOXIXG. 

the whol^ estate is of rii^ht vours, that your niece is dead and 
buried?” 

She watchea him keenly; but beyond putting his hand suddenly 
on the back of a chair near him, he gave no sign of surprise. 

‘‘ 1 should say that you labored under a mistake.” 

” But if 1 tell you 1 can show you absolute proofs?” 

The clasp of the hand on the chair tightened visibly; but he an- 
swerred quietly: 

• ” Then 1 should say ‘ Show them." ” 

The little law 3 ^er, who bad remained motionless and attentive 
until now, moved, and Babette put out her hand toward him. 

” Silence then! 1 am not a tool!” she exclaimed, as if in answer 
to his unspoken remark. ‘‘ That is what 1 am going to do. 1 am 
going to show j’^ou something that will put you right on to the 
straight track leading to this woman ^s downfall and j^our restoration 
to w hat has been yours almost ever since your brother’s death— Mal- 
lingtord Park."’ 

Mr. Mallett drew a deep breath, apd then asked,* laconicall}^ 

“ And your price?” 

Babette felt that here was a gleam in the eyes watching her from 
behind the table, and, she looked at Daws instinctively. He mis- 
took the look to mean, ‘‘ You name the price,” and he said, im- 
mediately: 

” One year’s rent-roll.” 

** In other words; beOveen eleven and twelve thousand pounds?” 
interrogated Mr. Mallett. 

Daws nodded his head affirmatively. 

” The affair, so far as 1 am concerned, is ended.” 

•Babette glared for an instant at the lawyer, and muttered, 

” You cocJion— you. vampire!” Then, turning to Mr. Mallett, she 
said, in her best manner,- ” He is .mistaken, monsieur; the price 
arranged betw^een us w'as five thousand pounds on the day you laRe 
possession.” 

” To be conferred by deed of gift conditionally beforehand,” put 
in the lawyer. 

” Very good. 1 accept those terms on the understanding that the 
lady in questioA is proved to be an utter stranger b^’ blood.” 

” Y^ou will sign the undertaking before you see our proof,” Daws 
said, raising the\lid of his desk as bespoke , and producing a ready- 
prepared document. 

Mr. Mallett read it in silence, and then put out his hand for a pen. 
Daws stopped him. 

” One moment. We must have a disinterested witness to the sig- 
nature, if you please. Joe Blake, come here!” 

The wretched lad Blake sneaked from the outer office into the 
room, watched Mr.' Mallett sign, put his> own name to the paper, 
and then shuffled out again. 

“Now we can proceed to business,” chuckled Daws. “The 
next move is yours* Ma’m’selle Lestrange. It is. plain to be seen 
that the whole thing is distasteful to Mr. Mallett. He is a man Of 
refinement, and this companionship on an equality with people so 
immeasurably his inferiors grates most disagreeably on his sense of 
the fitness of things. ” 


A BITTER RECKOXIXG. 


73 


The lawyer’s ill-timed attempt at a joke gave At r. Mallett the op- 
portunity he had been longing for, and he turned" upon him almost 
savagely. 

“ Be good enough to remember that this is a business interview,” 
he said, frigidly, “ and reserve your humor tor a more fitting occa- 
sion.” The small, shabby creature shriveled up at once, and Mr. 
Mallett, with a show of surface- courtesy, turned to Babbette. 
” And now, madame, 1 think the rest of this interview can be car- 
ried on between us two; the presence of a third person is unneces- 
sary, as 1 conclude the proofs spoken of by you are in your pos- 
session.” 

” 1 must speak this once; and 1 won’t interrupt again,” jerked in 
Daws. ” 1 am a partner in this attair — 1 would not have taken it 
up but on that understanding— and, being a partner, 1 submit that 
you have no right to shut me out; therefore, 1 stay.” 

Mr. Mallett shrugged his shoulders with an expression of utter 
indifference. 

Babette produced the envelope again, and took from it the small 
photograph of a grave, which she had found in her mistress’ desk. 
She drew out a small magnifying glass from her pocket, and crossed 
the room to the dirty window. 

” Come and look,” she said. 

Mr. Mallett did as requested, and then looked at her inquiringly. 

” Do you not see the name on the tomb?” she asked, impatiently, 
for she was so impressed with the truth of her own belief that she 
was annoyed when others did not jump so readily to the same con- 
clusion as heiself. 

Air. Mallett bent down again in the doubtful light that found its 
way through the dust- grimed panes, and looked carefully at the 
photograpii. 

Daws and Babette stood by, anxiously awaiting his answer. 

“ 1 see the name ‘ Pauline * plainly, and the last letters of the 
second name — ‘ 1-1-i-n-g.’ What then?” 

” Do not you remernber that your niece’s name is Pauline, and 
can you not see that those letters which are blotted out by that mark 
must be the first two letters of your own name? If it were not for 
that blot, the name would stand ‘ Pauline Mailing.’ Can you not 
understand that you hold in your hand a photograph oh your real 
niece’s grave, and that this woman at Alallingford is nothing but 
an adventuress?” 

” Great Heaven!” 

He stood staring, first at one, then at the other, and then, in 
breathless amazement, he looked at the card in his hand. 

Babette felt satisfied as to the success of her coup, 

” And, if that is not enough^ — 1 mean the mere" name — there is the 
date, ‘ Alay 18 — .’ This woman who has been quietly accepted as 
the late baronet’s heiress first came to life in July of the same year. 
It is all quite plain.” 

In a dazed fashion Air. Mallett passed his hand across his fore- 
head. He could not yet realize the position in which he stood; he 
could not grasp what it meant for him— comfort, position, riches, 
splendor, after twenty years of comparative privation. His head 
was in a whirl. 


74 


A BITTER RECKOXIXG. 


“ Will you not sit^ You look overcome, Sir Geoffrey.” 

lie started on liparinc: liimselt addressed by liis proper name. 
Y’es, that was just what it meant to him — that he was, or would 
soon be, Sir Geoffrey Mailing of - Malliugford Park, instead of a 
hard-working drawing master, doing hrs daily round of instruc- 
tion at so many shillings a quarter, and thinking himself fortunate 
if, after settling his bills, he was able to put away a few pounds at 
the end of each term. He dropped into the chair placed for him by 
Babette, wondering if he should wake up to find it all a dream. 
He listened, without, however, gathering much of her meaning, to 
the Frenchwoman’s voluble explanation. 

” AVe advertised for you day after day in the Times, but could 
get no answer; and 1 was in despair, when Providence sent you 
down to^billingford. Mrs. Perkins saw you, and recognized you 
as you went out, and told me who you were. How 1 prayed that 
she was not mistaken!. 1 telegraphed to Mr. Daws; and he tele- 
graphed to you this morning. 1 made an absolute necessity of 
coming to town for some wedding finery; and so here we are!” 

” And now what is to be done? And am 1 to go down to the 
parkland turn this woman out with a policeman, or how do you 
propose to proceed?” 

She must not be interfered with until our proofs are all pre- 
pared,” replied Mr. Daws. ” M}’’ suggestion is that jVIa’m’selle 
Lestrange should give you the address of the man who took that 
photograph — which, with a rare foresight, sdie withheld from me; 
that you cross over to Paris by to-night’s boat, and from there make 
your way as quickly as you can to this place in Spain: that, when 
there, you* get affidavits, or whatever their Spanish equivalent may 
be, from eye- witnesses of your niece’s death, also the certificate of 
her death, and any other evidence that may crop up, and that on 
your return you place said proofs in my hands; and before a month 
has passed yoii will be in possession of Mallingford, and ma’m’selle 
and 1 will be fingering that five thousand.” 

” 1 have no money to meet ihe expenses of such a ionrney.” 

” 1 thought of (hat the minute 1 received ma’iu’selle’s telegram, 
and Ijaised fifty pounds at a big sacrifice this morning. Sign this 
bill for seventy-five at three months, and the fifty is yours.” 

Mr. Mallett’s lip curled with contempt at the shameless extortion. 

You must feel very sure of this game,” he remarked, ” to be 
so — generous, shall we call it?” 

Daws listened to the innuendo with placid unconcern. 

” AY ell, 1 do feel sure of it; and I’ll tell you why. Miss Mailing 
called upon me on (he very first day our advertisement of your ad- 
dress appeared, and she was in such an awful state of fright about 
it— for all her smooth words and soft voice — that 1 saw in a minute 
she was afraid of you for some reason or other. Putting what 1 
observed and ma’m’selle’s theory about that photo, together, I con- 
cluded that we were on the right track — that your niece is dead — 
died six years ago — and this woman is nothing but an impostor.” 

” Oh, yes, it is sure enough,” interposed Babette. ” But let us 
waste no more time. I must get back to my fine madame, and you. 
Sir Geoffrey, will have to say good'by to the charming young lady, 
your daughter, and make arrangements for your absence. Here is 


A BITTER RECKONING. 


75 


the address of the photo.e^rapher who took the picture. That ends 
the arrangements so far as 1 am concerned at present; the rest re- 
mains with you and Monsieur Daws; he will let me know how you 
go on in your search. Good-afternoon!’* 

Daws looked after her in surprise. Bhe had not spoken a word 
about the need for haste if the marriage was to be prevented; he 
had been expecting it all through the interview, and she had gone 
without once introducing the subject. Perhaps she had altered her 
mind; any way, that part of the business had nothing to do with 
him. Once more he opened his desk. 

“ Here is the money, Sir Geoffrey, and here fs the bill ready 
stamped to sign. You will send me an occasional telegram, if you 
come across any news; and if you find another titty necessar}'- you 
can have.it on the same terms. 1 wish you a successful search, sir, 
and a speedy return. * ’ 

“ 1 shall wire if necessary, not unless; and you may depend upon 
my earliest possible return.” 

He put his name to the bill, took up the small roll of notes, test- 
ed and counted them, bade the lawyer good-day, and left the room 
without seeing his extended hand. 

“As proud as Lucifer!” muttered Daws, not a bit abashed. 
“ Never mind— it’s, a case of ' £ s. d/ plain and simple between us, 
and the plainer and simpler the better.” 

Mr. Mallett reached the noisy, bustling street, and looked about 
him for a cab; time was getting precious, if he meant *to start to- 
night; and he would like to do so, if possible— for an intolerable 
restlessness had come to him, and he felt tUat he could not spend a 
moment in peace until he knew everything. 

To his surprise, as he looked up and down the long street, Ba- 
bette glided tiom the shadow of a door -way and beckoned to him. 

”1 want lo say a dozen words to you that 1 do not care that little 
man to hear,” she said, as he reached her side. ” 1 have only- two 
minutes to spare, and 1 was afraid jmu would not leave in time. 
If you find out that your niece is dead, and that this woman is an 
impostor soon enough to let me have a telegram to that effect by 
AVednesday morning, 1 will not ask you for my halt of that five 
thousand pounds.” 

Here was another complication. 

“ Why by Wednesday morning?” aslvcd Mr. Mallett, in surprise. 

“ Because she is going to maiTy Mr. Dornton at Bishopsgate 
Church at eleven o’clock on Wednesday next — all in secret, you 
know — and 1 would not only give up the money, but the best years 
of my life to prevent it!” 

” Married to Dornton on Wednesday — the very day after her 
birthday— at a busy city church! Great heavens, what does it all 
mean?” asked Mi^ Mallett, in perplexity. 

“ It means she is fond of that young man, and will marry him in 
spite of every one, if you do not prevent it. 1 must fly for my train 
— do what you can.” 

He stood for a moment looking after her retreating figure, tried 
to make out what the news meant, then gave it up in despair, and 
bestowed his thoughts exclusively on the arrangements for his ab- 
sence. 


56 


A BITTER RECKONIETG. 


CHAPTER Xyil. 

Sunday at Mallingfora Park. The house was full of visitors. 
Small attics on the top story which had never been slept in since 
the great doings of thirty-nine years before, when the late Sir Paul 
came of age, were all occupied now, for, Lord Summers having ex- 
pressed a wish that Miss Mailing's majorit}’^ should be marked by 
htliug festivities^ that lady had thrown herself heartily into the proj- 
ect. She was so anxious to till up every hour of the day with oc- 
cupation of some kind that those w’ho knew her best noticed with 
silent wonder the restless craving for excitement. True, her man- 
ner was as caressingly smooth and her voice as soft and sweet as 
ever; but there was a constant, insatiable desire to be doing some- 
thing. 

It was a close stifling day, and there were a taint, white mist on 
the park-lands, and an intense stillness in the air, which proved 
very trying to the majority of Miss Mailing’s guesta after luncheom 
They sauntered out of the reception-rooms by twos and threes, and 
sought the quiet of their own apartments, until the ground-floor 
looked quite deserted. 

Pauline’s health was generally good; but she too felt a breathless 
languor to-day, and determined to enjoy the afternoon in her owm 
'rooms. She removed the gorgeous toilet which had gladdened the 
eyes of the villagers in church that morning, and replaced it by a 
light cashmere moining-gown. 

Babette was dismissed until five o’clock, and Pauline threw her- 
self into a deep low chair by the open window and sighed wearily. 

“ The last Sund^ that T shall be known to the world as Miss 
Mailing,” she mused. “Before this time next week Jack and 1 
will be aw^ay — miles away — from here, happy in each other’s so- 
ciety, and in the certainty that nothing on earth can ever separate us. 
3\lost young women would have numberless love tokens to destroy 
before their marriage— 1 have absolutely nothing that I fear my hus- 
band’s seeing. Circumstances Ifave been against my cultivating 
lovers as an amusement, and 1 am spared the farce of destroying 
the evidences of my past folly.” 

. For a few moments her thoughts wandered bfi; to the future that 
looked so bright to her longing eyes. Presently they went back to 
her previous train of ideas, and she found herself repeating me- 
chanically, without thinking of their meaning, the words, “ the evi- 
dences of my past tolly.” They shot through her mind again and 
again, and she was conscipus of them even while she was picturing 
in glowing colors the happiness which was now almost within her 
grasp. She roused herself irritably ; the reiteration of the phrase 
worried her. She put it from her resolutely; but it was of no use. 
The obnoxious words repeated themselves persistently — “ evidences 
of my past tolly, evidences of my past folly.” She left her chair 
liastily and began to pace the room. 

When she had taken twp or three turns up- and down, she stop- 
ped in front of her desk and looked at it thoughtfully. 


A BITTER RECKOillKG. ?7 

“1 suppose 1 may as well destroy it/’ she said, absentlj". “It 
can do me no ^ood to keep it, and it might possibly do me harm in 
the future. That must have been in my mind all the time.” 

She unlocked the small bronze bor on the toilet* table with a key 
that hung from a fine gold chain round her neck; and took from it 
a bunch of keys. Then, drawing up a chair to the desk, she un- 
locked that also, and went slowly through its contents. 

She came upon one or two letters that interested her slightly and 
drew her thoughts away from her original purpose to search the 
desk, and it was not until both sides were quite empty that she dis- 
covered with a sudden heart-quickening fear the absence of that for 
which she was searching. 

A look of wild despair flashed from her eyes and her breath came 
in short sharp gasps, as she turned to the heap of odds and ends 
which she had already gone through, with a hope that in her 'ab- 
sence of mind she might have passed what she sought without no- 
ticing it. 

Her quick nervous fingers turned over the papers until the pile 
had once more been thoroughly searched; and then Pauline Mailing 
sunk back in her chair with her hand to her head and a look of de- 
spair in her eyes. Horrible thoughts chased each other through her 
aching brain; and, when five o’clock at last struck, she had arrived 
at only one definite conclusion, that the person who had possession 
of the missing article and the one who had advertized for the ad- 
dress of Rir Geoffrey Mailing were one and the same. 

"When she rose and relocked the desk, she was haggard and pale, 
and she looked at herself wistfully in the glass; and an instinctive 
prayer went up from her heart that her beauty might not leave her 
until she was Jack Dornton’s wife. In the midst of all that threat- 
ened her— loss of name, wealth, position— it was almost touching to 
note how this worldl}^ woman counted everything as nothing com- 
pared with her love for Jack. 

Lord {Summers was one of the guests at Mallingtord. He w^as 
staying “ over the seventeenth,” and the fussy, kindly old man was 
slightly concerned at the existing state of affairs. He arrived only 
on the Saturday evening, and he was surprised to find Jack still at 
the Park. 

He was keen in spite of his good nature, and he had seen enough 
in the twenty-four hours he had been there to arouse his curiosity- 
even his suspicions. He took an opportunity after dinner to sound 
Jack. 

” And when are my pictures to be completed, Mr. Dorn ton?” he 
asked, after beckoning to Jack to bring his chair next to his own, 
as soon as the ladies had left the room. 

This very question had been a point of disagreement between Jack 
and Pauline. He had wished to carry out the commission for those 
six pictures, and she had urged the unfitness of his earning another 
penny by his painting after their marriage. So he hesitated a little 
before he answered. 

” Are you anxious to have them soon? 1 am anticipating a winter 
in Rome this year, and 1 should like, if possible, to devote myself 
while there to a close study of the old masters. But, if you are par- 


78 


A BITTER RECE:ON:i]SrG. 


ticular as to time, 1 'will finish your commission before 1 touch any 
other 'work, of course.” 

” Ko, 1 don't think 1 am exactly in a hurry, if you are not,” and 
as his lordship spoke he thoujrht of the avidity with wliich Jack had 
accepted the offer when it was originally made, and his voluntary 
promise to complete the series by the end of the year. ” So 3 ^ 0 u 
mean to winter in Rome?” he said, pleasantl 3 \ His lordship was 
busy with the skin of a filbert; and he raised his eyes and looked 
straight into Jack’s as he asked, And how does Miss Ethel Mai* 
lett like the prospect ot so long a separation?” 

Jack reddened suddenl}^ and he haled himself for it. 

“ 1 did not know you took enough interest in my private affairs 
to be led into investigating them,” he answered, with a decided 
touch of displeasure in his voice. 

“ Nor do 1. You are mistaken; it is Miss Mallett’s affairs 1 am 
interested in. 1 beg you will not credit me with prying into your 
personal affairs at all. As 1 have spoken on the matter, and as .you 
seem to resent the liberty — which, believe me, was not intended as 
such — 1 must explain how things are. 1 met an old friend of mine, 
with his daughter, at the Exhibition of the Royal Academy one day 
last season. 1 had known him in years past as an enthusiast in art, 
and I was delighted to meet so congenial a companion.” Lord 
Summers paused a moment, and looked carefully round the table; 
seeing everybody occupied in conversation, he went on, in a slight- 
ly lowered voice, ” My friend has had many reverses in life, which 
have necessitated his taking the name of ‘Mr. Mallett,’ and have 
driven him to earn a living for himself and his family by giving 
lessons in drawing. I see you begin to understand now ” — in an- 
swer to Jack’s start of surprise. ” Well, we went through some of 
the rooms together and we came to a picture of yours. Miss Mal- 
lett’s delight at its position on the line was eloquent of many things. 
1 looked the question 1 did not care to ask, and Mr. Mallett told me 
of the engagenc ent between his daughter and you, and expressed his 
wish that she should remain in the same class of society that she had 
been brought up in, in answer to my suggestion that she should 
come to us for a season in town. Now, perhaps, you will underr 
stand my motive in seeking you out and excuse my seemingly im- 
pertinent curiosity.” 

Jack’s feelings at that moment were not enviable. He had always 
looked upon Lord Summers’ commission as a direct proof of his 
own ability. It was a decided damper to his good opinion of him- 
self to discover that it was due to his patron’s interest in Ethel Mal- 
lett; and he felt more uncomfortable still as he recalled the manner 
in which he had repaid that interest. Still he would not beat about 
the bush. 

‘‘As you do not seem to have been very glad to hear of the en- 
gagement, perhaps you will be better pleased to hear that it is at an 
end.” 

“ Indeed!” 

“ Yes; and I think you should know that Miss Mallett took, the 
initiative in the breaking off.” 

‘‘1 am surprised! 1 thought she was very fond of you. But 
there is no accounting lor women’s actions.” 


A BITTER RECKONI]S’G, 


79 


And then Lord Summers turned to his other neighbor and threw 
himself into a discussion upon the drainage of land, thus tacitly 
dismissing the other subject; but Jack was conscious that he was 
not held blameless in the matter— nor indeed did he feel so.’" 

One. point in the conversation had roused his curiosity — Lord 
Summers’ remark as to the name of “ Mallett ” being assumed. He 
would have liked to pursue the subject; but as things were, he had 
no right to feel curious. 

Later in the evening Miss Mailing and her guardian were chatting 
confidentially, and the subject of the mysterious advertisement was 
introduced. 

“ Have you any notion yrhat they could mean?” he asked. 

” Not the smallest,” she answered. “It is curious Sir Geofirey 
never saw them. ’ ' 

“ But he maj’’ have, without our knowing it.” 

“ True. But don’t you think that the motive, whatever it was, 
must have affected the whole family, and that, if he had been found, 
we should have been mixed up in it?” 

“ Possibly, but not necessarily. If I had known where Geoffrey 
was, 1 should certainly have insisted upon his sifting the matter. 
Indeed, at one time I thought of investigating it myself; but your 
uncle was always so touchy about anyone’s interfering in his affairs 
that I thought it better to let it alone.” 

For a moment there was a fixed look of fear on Pauline’s face; 
but Lord Summers w^as too much taken up with his subject to no- 
tice it. 

“ Good-looking fellow, Dornlon,” he remarked, carelessly, with 
a glance to where Jack was carrying on the usual war of words with 
Bertha Collins. 

“ Very,” Pauline answered, shortly. 

“ Made quite a long stay with you. Been here since the begin- 
ning of July, has he not?’ 

“ 1 forget exactly wnen he came.” 

“It one of our own people were to make such an unusually long 
stay, folk would think you had made up your mind at last. As it 
is—” His lordship shrugged his shoulders, but did not finish his 
sentence. 

“ Exactly,” said Pauline, with sweet indifference. 

But, in spite of this apparent indifference. Lord Summers felt sat- 
asfied that things were in an unsatisfactory state, and he wished fer- 
vently that, in his anxiety to benefit the future husband of his old 
friend’s daughter, he had been prompted to do anything rather than 
send him down to this particular neighborhood. 

Sunday evening was rather a quiet time at Mallingford, and the 
house was wrapped in darkness earlier than usual. But the lamps 
in Miss Mailing’s houdoir burned on steadily, for Jack and his 
fiancee were having their last confidential chat before their marriage. 
The next morning Jack was to leave for London, to obtain the 
special license and see after sundry small matters, and he would not 
return until late on Tuesday afternoon. 

“ 1 suppose we must say good-by to-night, as 1 shall most likely 
start before you are down?” Jack said. 

“ Yes— but not just yeti Don’t be in a hurry to leave me. Jack,” 


80 


A BITTEll KECKONII^G. 


Pauline answered, with a touch of pleading in her voice. She knelt 
on the thick white rug at his feet, and added, “ 1 would get up to 
give you a parting salute it 1 were not afraid that Lord Summers 
would hear of it.” 

“ My dear, there is no need,’' Jack said, calmly. ** At tke same 
time, 1 can't understand your dread of Summers. Surely you may 
dd as 5^011 choose in so small a matter?” 

‘‘ I don’t think 1 understand it myself. Jack; yet I feel it. My 
life is full of dread just now;” and she gave a startled look at the 
windows as a sudden gust of wind rattled them. 

“ you are nervous, Pauline,” Jack said. *‘ 1 thought you were 
above such a womanish ailment as ‘ nerves.’ ” 

Pauline put up her hand to enforce silence, and a strange look 
crept into her eyes. The breathless stillness of the day was giving 
way to a spiteful little hurricane, which was shrieking round the 
corners of the house, and rattling at the fastenings of doors and 
windows, whirling the already numerous dead leaves against the 
glass, and making itself generally unpleasant. But, beyond the 
noises caused by the wind, the house was as still and silent as the 
tomb. The last of the visitors had retired to their rooms nearly an 
hour before, and probably there was not a waking soul in the house 
except those two, and poor tired Babette, who sat by the fire in her 
mistress’ dressing-room above, pondering the chances in .favor of 
and against Sir Geoffrey’s finding the proofs of the real Pauline 
Mailing’s death in time to stop this woman’s marriage. 

Fauhne listened intently; but the house itself w^as silent enough 
to satisfy even her strained hearing. 

“ What did you think 3^011 heard?” .Tack asked, in a whisper, im- 
pressed. in spite of himself, by her manner. 

” A clashing like the crossingot swords,” she answ'ered, in a dull, 
apathetic voice. 

” The rattling of the fastenings to the doors,” Jack cried, laugh- 
ingly. ” I thought by your frightened look you had discovered a 
family ghost.” 

” But it was outside this door. Jack— in the corridor.” 

Jack looked at her curiously. 

“What should put such a strange notion into your head,” he 
asked, ” when the dropping of a saucepan or an iron window-bar 
falling won Id make just the"” same noise?' 

” Our family legend, 1 suppose,” she replied, in the same absent 
way. 

” What is the legend?” 

Pauline had determined that Jack should not hear that unhapp 3 r 
story until he was her husband; but to-night, when he asked her 
the direct questipn, ” What is the legend?” she forgot her previous 
determination; or perhaps she was prompted by the superstitious 
fancy that possessed her to divide the burden of her ghostly knowl- 
edge; anyway, whatever the cause, she gave a direct answer to 
Jack’s question. 

” The legend is that — Put your arm round me, Jack! The 
legend runs that in the time of the troubles between Charles 1. and 
the Parliament there was a royalist leader hidden in the house of 
the Mallyngs— the name was" spelled ‘ M-a-l-l-y-n-g ’ then. We 


A BITTER RECKONING. 


81 


were noted royalists in those days, and the heiid of the house at that 
time, Master Humbert Mallyng of Mallyng House, had reduced 
himself to such poverty by his adherence to the king’s cause that he 
and his family could barely keep themselves from starvation. This 
Humbert had been married twice. He had only one son by his fiist 
wife, a proud, haughty, reserved young man, who was about 
twenty-five at the time of w’hich 1 am speaking, and who had an 
intense passion for high play. His name was Paul, and he was 
generally feared and disliked by all the tenantry. Besides his eldest 
son, Master Humbert had a numerous family of small children by 
his second wife, a pretty woman, many years younger than him- 
self, who was the daughter of one of his own tenant-farmers. Of 
course Paul hated heartily these younger members of the family, 
thinking naturally that they diverted a Ikrge share of his father’s 
rent-roll from him. "Now comes the story. As 1 said, there was a 
noted ro5^alist leader in hiding in Mallyng, and there was a very 
large reward offered for his betrayal. One night a body of about 
twenty parliament men came clattering up to the door and de- 
manded admittance. Mastef Humbert, feeling quite satisfied as to 
the safety of the hiding-place where the royalist, was, opened to 
them at once. . Well, they searched the house from cellar to garret, 
and found nothing; but their information had been so precise that 
they were not content, and they made up their minds to stay all 
night and search the house again by daylight. Humbert felt a little 
anxious, but not rejilly alarmed, when he heard this, for he had 
perfect confidence in the secret chamber, as no one but himself and 
his son and heir, Paul, knew even in what part of the house it was 
situated ; so he told the parliament men they were welcome to stay, 
but that he could not feast them as he had barely food enough in 
the house tor bis own family. They grumbled, and fell back on 
the traveling rations in their pouches. Just as the house was being 
closed for the night, as an evil fate would have it, Paul came rat- 
tling up, gained an interview with his father, and told him he must 
have a very large sum of money by the next day but one td meet 
his gambling debts or be would be a ruined man. Poor old Hum- 
bert wrung his hands, and told him with tears in his eyes, that he 
had not the money wherewith to buy food for his little children; 
how then could Paul expect him to provide him with money for 
such a purpose? Then Paul suggested the betrayal of their guest, 
and the old man in feeble rage raised his hand and struck him. 
There was a terrible scene between them, and Paul left with a cruel 
laugh; but in the morning a messenger came from the village to the 
leader of the parliament men, with a piece of paper on which a plan 
was drawn, and the troopers went straight to the secret chamber and 
secured their prisoner. Of course you understand that Paul had 
betrayed him tor the reward. Ihe next time the son came to his 
home he found his f Either almost an imbecile, his mind shattered by 
horror at bis son’s dishonor; but, when Paul went into the room 
where the old man was, he sprung up, took his sword from where 
it hung against the wall, and, turning on his son, called on him to 
defend himself, for that he, Humbert Mallyng, strong of heart, 
though weak of arm, would by his son’s death wipe out this first 
stain of dishonor on the family name. I'he old man fell on Paul 


82 


A BITTEK BECKONING. 


so furiously, his onslaught was so sudden, that the younger man 
lost his presence of mind, and, after weakly parrying two or three 
strokes, he fell with his father’s sword through his heart.’' 

Pauline held her breath at this point, and listened again ; but, be- 
yond the whistling of the wind and the rustle of the leaves on the 
terrace, all was silence. Jack shivered involuntarily, and drew her 
still closer to him as she went on: 

“ Then, when poor Master Humbert stood over his son's body and 
realized what he had done, his last ray of reason went from him, 
and he became a raving, shrieking maniac. His poor young wife 
locked herself up in one of the garrets with all her young children, 
except the eldest bo}^; and listened in silent horror to her husband 
as he went shouting, cursing, and blaspheming through the house. 
The servants ran away in fear of their lives, and the old man gath- 
ered all the inflammable material he could find, heaped it over his 
son’s body, and set file to it. Every soul of them was burned to 
death — nothing but bones was found in the ruins — with the excep- 
tion oi the eldest boy by the second wife, who saved his life by 
jumping from the window of his room, but broke both his legs. 
This boy was afterward the first baronet, and w^as called ‘ hobbled 
Sir Geotfrey ’ in consequence of his limp.” 

” What a chapter of horrors!" exclaimed Jack. 

” Yes, it is very dreadful. And now they say that if a Mailing 
contemplates doing anything that will bring disgrace on the name, 
those two again go through their ghastly fight for the honor of the 
house, and can be heard stamping their feet and striking their swords 
up and down the passages quite plainly.” 

‘‘ Still I don’t see why you should imagine you heard them just 
now,'' Jack said quietly. ” 1 hope you do not think you are bring- 
ing disgrace on Ihe family name by marrying me?” 

He waited a little, as if expecting an answer. There was none. 
He put her from him gently, and looked at her earnestly. 

” Do you think your ancestors have risen from their graves to 
reveal their indignation at your approaching marriage with a poor 
2 )ainter who is a mere nobody apart from his art? Because, if you 
really believe that, the belief must in the first place proceed from 
your own ideas being identical with theirs; and in that case it is not 
too late even yet to draw back, you know.” 

As he spoke, there was a flash, almost of hope, in his eyes. 

Foi an instant Pauline looked at him in silent agony. She had 
been so absorbed by her own knowledge of the portent's meaning 
that the view Jack might possibly take of it had never occurred to 
her. She threw her arms around him, clinging to him wildly, de- 
spairingly, while she begged him never, never to speak of leaving 
her again if he would not see her fall dead at his feet. 

It was perhaps ominous that these were the last words of actual 
conversation that passed between them before they stood side by 
side at the altar. 


CHAPTER XYlll. 

It was rather annoying to Felling tlyit just now, when he was 
anxious to make the most of his chance with Ethel, her father’s 


83 


A BITTER RECKONS ING. 

absence prevented his carrying out his design. He fretted and 
fumed impatiently over Mr. Mallett’s letter — telling of his entorced 
absence tor a week — when he first received it; and then, seeing the 
uselessness of repining, he set about making plans for relieving 
EtheTs loneliness. 

He wrote her a letter, telling her he regretted now more than ever 
that he had neither mother nor sisters, nor even a stray aunt, as, if 
he had, he would press them into playing propriety, and carry her 
oft a prisoner to spend the week at the Wigwam. Then he made 
appointments at the publisher’s, always taking caie to arrive before 
her, and generally, after putting her into a cab, returning for a last 
ten minutes’ chat with Mr. Bramwell before starting himself. Then 
there was usually either a letter— on business, of course — or a nov- 
el by the morning post ; and later on in the day would arrive a box 
of lovely loose blossoms or a basket of late grapes and peaches. So 
Etnel was always being pleasantly reminded that her happiness was 
the chief object of one person’s life, and the knowledge comforted 
her exceedingly. 

Meanwhile Mr. Mallett was having rather a hard time of it. He 
arrived in Paris on Sunday morning, and the wedding was to take 
place on the following Wednesday. This gave him but three clear 
days to get to the obscure Spanish town— of which he did not even 
know the whereabouts— hunt up the evidence of his niece’s death, 
and telegraph the news in time to stop the ceremony. 

As he thought over the business calmly, he came to the conclu- 
sion that success on this point was decidedly doubtful ; but it was 
possible, and he determined to strain every nerve to achieve it. For, 
in a careless sort of way, he was partial to stupid, blundering, and 
weak-minded Jack, and he would be sorry to see him the victim of 
an unscrupulous adventuress. 

After a weary tw^o days’ struggle with railway officials and time- 
tables, he reached Madrid on Tuesda}’’ in the cool blush of the early 
morning, very fagged, but determined to go on. He had made a 
friend of the guard, glad to find some one who spoke French— for 
his Spanish was doubtful from long disuse — and on the arrival of 
the train they went off together to the inquiry-office to find out 
means to reach the obscufe town of Villa Silentio. 

The station-master, half asleep, and wholly angry at being routed 
out of bed at such an early hour in the morning, at first denied all 
knowdedge of a place of that name; but, when the guard reminded 
him that such tlungs as reference-books of the railway routes were 
issued for his especial enlightenment, his manner changed, and he 
proceeded to do his best on Mr. Mallett’s behalf. 

“ It is here, you see,” he said in Spanish, putting his fat finger 
on a spot in the map. ” Senor can not leave Madrid until half past 
nine; he will then have two hours’ railway-ride, and then an hour 
and a halt by coach over not the very best of roads. Senor will re- 
member to leave the train at Bassillia and inquire for the coach for 
Villa Silentio.” 

Mr. Mallett looked at his watch. It was a quarter to six ; he 
would have time for three hours’ rest. Thanking the friendly 
guard tor his good services, he tossed his small bag and rug on the 
nearest hack-carriage and drove oft to an hotel. 


84 


A BITTER REGKO>sI:N^G. 


His mind was full of memories as he drove through the quiet 
streets. He remembered that the last time he saw Madrid he was 
on a sketching tour through Spain. Tliat was in his father’s life- 
time, and he had good credit at the banker’s. Life then appeared 
full of bright possibilities, and the thought of ever having to work 
for his living had not presented itselt to him. Kow hovv difterent 
things were with him! His thoughts were very sober ones when 
the lumbering conveyance drew up with a jerk at the hotel door. 

It seemed to Mr. Mallett, travel-worn with his forty eight hours’ 
bustle and rattle, that he had not positively closed his eyes when 
the boots aroused him by thundering at his "bedroom door. 

“ It is now nine. Senor has a quarter to dress in, ten minutes 
for his breakfast, and five minutes to catch his train.” 

And at one o’clock Mr. Mallett, feeling as if his senses had been 
shaken out of him by the last hour over that never-to-be-forgotten 
road, found himself standing in the market-place of Villa Silent io, 
with the hot midday sun beating down on him, feeling more com- 
pletely alone and helpless than he ever remembered to have felt 
before. 

” 1 am afraid 1 made a mistake in coming myself,” he said to the 
market clock, as he^tood in front of it. ‘‘You see a man of htty- 
seven is not so quick and apt in adapting himself to circumstances 
as a younger man would be; and in the humdrum life of the last 
twenty years I have lost all my old samir-faire that would have 
served me so well now.” 

The place looked very desolate. There was an old man in a 
broad-brimmed hat crossing one corner of the open square, and a 
half-starved-looking hen was clucking noisily to her brood of 
hungry chicks; but beyond these there was no sign of life that he 
could see. The sun lay in yellow patches on the ill-paved square, 
halt cobbles and half-baked mud, and the ragged awnings of a few 
poor stalls, deserted just now, hung down as if they dared not flutter 
for fear of attracting attention to their dirt and poverty. 

For two or three minutes Mallett stood listening to the distant 
rumbling of the coach- wheels, and, great Jis had been his suffering 
during the drive, he almost wished himself back again on the aw- 
ful machine, instead of here in this death-like place. He wondered 
if he should ever be able to get away from it again? He almost 
thought not. 

He shook oft* the dreamy feeling of unreality that possessed him, 
and crossed to a deserted-looking house on the shady side of the 
square, vybere a sign-board from which all vestige of paint had long 
since passed away, hung over the door, seeming to denote a house 
of entertainment. 

He pushed open the door and it was swung to behind him with- 
out noise. He was in a large stone-flagged room which occupied the 
whole depth of the house, the opposite end opening on to a crazy 
veranda crumbling under the weight of luxuriant creepers, through 
which there .were glimpses of a w^eed-grown iuclosure beyond. 

With all' his artistic tastes, Mr. Mallett was at heart a practical 
Englishman, and his business instincts were ottended by the apathy 
ot the whole place, more especially by the unbusiness-like aspect of 
apparently the only hotel in the town, fie stamped up and down 


A BITTER RECKOKIKG, 


85 


the stone floor, and shouted until the stones echoed his voice. At 
the end of ten minutes a sallow face, sui rounded by turbulent 
masses of frizzy black hair leaned over the hand-rail of the stairs 
that led up to the next floor, and an angry voice, in a most incom-; 
preliensible patois, inquired what all the uproar was about. Here 
was a new difficulty! If Mr. Mallett could not understand them, 
how could he expect them to understand him? 

The woman above looked at him m unmoved surprise for a mo- 
ment, and then, muttering something in which he caught only the 
word “ stranger,” uttered in a tone of extreme astonishment, dis- 
appeared. Mr. Mallett, concluding that he had interrupted the 
fiesta, quietly sat down to wait until she should have made herself 
presentable. 

In about five minutes the sallow face and frizzy hair reappeared, 
and the woman began to apologize profusely. 

Mr. Mallett stood politely silent, hat in hand, until she seemed to 
have ended her speech, when he presented the envelope given him 
by Babette, with the name and address of the photographer of the 
gravestone. 

The talkative lady took it over to the light, and spelled it out la- 
boriously, and then turned again to Mr. Mallett, and rattled off 
another little incom pi ehensible speech, inteispersed with number- 
less ejaculations of astonishment. . {Seeing at last that he did not 
understand a word of what she was saying, she pointed to the ad- 
dress in her hand, and said slowly in Bpanish: 

“My father.” 

Mr. Mallett understood that, for pointing in his turn to the en- 
velope, he asked: 

“ Where?” 

She smiled pleasantly, motioned to him to reseat himself, and 
went upstairs looking once oi twice over her shoulder to nod and 
smile at him reassuringly. Could it be that the man he was in search 
of was here in this house— that, just when he was beginning to be- 
lieve he should fail. Fate had changed her mood, and was going to 
be kind to him? 

He could hear an animated conversation going on somewhere in 
the rooms above, and he recognized the voice of the woman and the 
tones of a man ; but he could gather no meaning from the rapidly 
flowing speech. 

Presently there came down to him an elderly Spaniard, with 
something of the dandy still clinging to him in the shape of waxed 
mustaches and perfumed hair. 

Still, the signs of decay that abounded throughout the place 
showed themselves even here in the ancient fop’s frayed jacket and 
well-worn shoes. 

To Mr. Mallett’s surprise and relief, he at once opened the con- 
versation in passable French. 

“ Monsieur wu*shes to see me? He has evidently come a long way 
for that purpose. I am charmed, flattered, and abashed all at one 
time — charmed and flattered to receive any one w^ho comes a dis- 
tance to pay homage to art, and abashed to' have to receive him in 
this manner ' 


86 


A BITTEK EECKONIITG. 

An eloquent shrug and a glance at his shabby clothes emphasized 
his words. 

“ JNot quite that/’ began Mr. Mallett; but the senor’s apologies 
were not to be cut short. 

“Pardon,” he interrupted, more with the airy volubility of a 
frenchman than the staid dignity ot a Spaniard. “ I must first 
explain how it is you find me thus, before my mind will know rest; 
it is due to myself. ’J 

“ But 1 assure you,” again began Mr. Mallett, in a last effort to 
check the recital ot family misfortunes which his instinct told him 
was coming; but the old man put up his hand and proceeded: 

•“ You know already 1 am benor Castellan, an aristocrat by (he 
accident of birth, an artist by the gift of Heaven; but you did not 
know that I am now a beggar by the decree of Fate. 1 

live still; and to live is in itself a greater happiness than, perliaps, 
one deserves. You have no doubt come here out of cariosity to see 
the man whose name is famous, in the French salons, and you mar- 
vel to find him such a one as you now see. I explain the seemingly 
incomprehensible thus: On my return from my art-studies in Paris 
to ttie home ot my fathers', 1 decided to resign painting — at the best 
a niggardly mistress to serve— and set up my studio as a photo- 
graphic artist here in this town, where such a thing as photography 
was unheard of. Monsieur understands the charm of novelty, s6 he 
will not be surprised to hear 1 made a great success. 1 worked all 
day, and at night 1 ale, drank and enjoyed myself. I thought 1 had 
found your goose wulh the golden eggs, and the future troubled me 
not at all; then, in an unlucky moment, was proposed the line of 
railway through this province'. It was decided to carry it through 
Bassillia — but twelve miles from here — instead of through this place, 
which in the past owed all its prosperity to the fact of its being one 
of the principal posting- towns on the high road to the North. That 
decision settled the future ot Villa Silentio. The trade and pros- 
perity of the place, and with it my practice as an artist in photog- 
raphy, dwindled year by year, until at last 1 gave up in despair six 
3'ears ago, and came here to end my days among my daughter’s 
children. Monsieur is a man of the world ; he will see how blame^ 
less is my present poverty; fate has been loo strong for me.” 

He put his hand on his heart, and bowed with the air of a prince. 
His belief that Mr. Mallett had come to visit and compliment ait in 
his person was so evidently genuine that the sensitive gentleman 
fell almost unhappy to have to undeceive him; but time was press- 
ing. He had none for the observance of unnecessary politeness. 

“ I have listened to you, senor; you will now give me my turn 
and listen to me.” 

. He took the little photograph from his pocket-book and held it 
toward Castellan. 

“ 1 believe you took that picture. If you retired from business 
six years ago, that must have been taken during the last tew 
months ot your practice, as the date on the stone is only a few 
months over six years from the present time; so you will not have 
much trouble in recollecting all about it. Now I want you to tell 
me where the grave of which that is a picture is to be found, how 


A BITTER RECKONING. 87 

you came to take the photograph, whom you took it for, and any 
other circumstances you can remember in connection with it.” 

The Spaniard leaned forward with his hands on his knees to look 
at the photograph, but he did not attempt to touch it. He stared 
at it earnestly while Mr. Mallett was speaking, and, when he had 
finished, he looked up with a scared face as he answered: 

” 1 said something was wrong about that affair at the time, and 
now my words are coming to pass. Th;it, monsieur, is the only 
grave 1 photographed during my career, so 1 am not likely to for- 
get it. 1 did not like the job, 1 can assure you: 1 have an antipa- 
thy to graves and coffins and all that reminds one of death, and 1 
would not have taken that picture for untold gold, but that 1 was 
enslaved by the beauty of the lady who asked me to do it. Monsieur 
has not seen such another — tall, shapely, with eyes, hair and skin 
perfect, and her voice soft and sweet like a silver bell. She coaxed 
me to do it against my will, and 1 crept into the convent grave-yard 
one morning at three o’clock with my camera, before even the 
busy sisters were out of their cells, and tool? the picture for her. 
You may see how imperfect the picture is, how many blemishes it 
has, and.you must not judge of my usual work by it, for my hand 
shook with fear—” The soul of the artist was ousting the shade oi 
the aristocrat. 

Mr. Mallett was by this time too eager to stand a second recital. 

“Never mind the blemishes, Scnor Castellan,” he interrupted. 
“ The photograph is good enough tor my purpose. 1 want you 
now to tell ihe the name of the lady who gave you the order, the 
name of the convent where the grave is, with directions for getting 
there.” 

Castellan’s hands went up in dismay. 

“You can not get there! It would be sacrilege. No man is per- 
mitted to enter the gates but on two days in the week, for a couple 
of hours at visiting time, you understand, when the holy sisters are 
all shut in tlieir cells at prayers.” 

“ Si ill 1 must get to see that grave before sunset to-night, and 1 
will give two hundred francs to any one who will help me.” 

“ Two hundred francs! It is a large' sum here in Villa Silentio. 
There is a working lay sister who does the errands for the convent 
ladies, with whom 1 am acquainted, who might be induced — ” He 
paused thoughtfully. 

“ That is settled then. And now how far is it, and how are we 
to get there?” Mr. Mallett asked, rising briskly from his chair. 

Castellan motioned him back to his seat. 

“You must leave this to me entirely, monsiefur. One ill-consid- 
ered step inight balk your plan, and rob Sister Maria and me of our 
reward. It must be done during vespers, if at all; and in the mean- 
time 1 must see the good sister and make my plans. It is now two 
o’clock: at a quarter past six you must be ready to accompan}^ me; 
and, if 1 might advise refreshment and rest before we start on our 
expedition, monsieur would be more fitted for it.” 

“One moment,” said Mr. Mallett, as Castellan rose to call his 
daughter to their guest. “ Tell me the name of the convent before 
you go.” 


88 


A 'BITTER RECKONIXG. 

“ It is called the Convent of the Holy Assumption, and it is but 
five minutes’ walk from here.” 

‘‘ And the name of the lady who ordered that photograph?” 

“ Ah, that 1 never knew! Sister Maria managed all the business 
part of the affair, as she will do now, and the lady’s name w^as 
never mentioned.” 

The young woman, looking quite smartened, now brought in a 
tray with bread, eggs, fruit, and a thin long-necked bottle of golden- 
colored wine upon it. 

Senor Castellan went through the front door into the market- 
place, pausing on the threshold, with his fingers on his lips, to say: 

“ Until six and a quarter then, cm rewirS' 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Mr. Mallett did not get much sleep while awaiting Senor Cas- 
tellan’s return. His mind was too busy digesting what he had just 
heard. Putting two and two togetheV, bearing in mind the fact 
that the sehor’s description of his beautiful customer tallied exactly 
with that given of the so-called Pauline Mailing by .lack Dornton, 
and that the photograph taken by Castellan was afterward found in 
that lady’s possession, his belief in the imposture was naturally 
strengthened, and his impatience to visit the grave and see for him- 
self the evidence of his niece’s death increased every moment. At 
last he heard the convent bell strike six; and, with a feeling of 
relief, he rose and went down-stairs. 

He found the senor waiting below, looking triumphant, but cau- 
tious. There were several loungers about, enjoying the compara- 
tive cool of the evening, and Mr. Mallett and Castellan passed 
through the room and out of the hbuse without exchanging a 
word. 

But, once safely outside, the sehor, who was brimming over with 
pleasant self-importance, rapidly unfolded the plans which Sister 
Maria and he had concocted for Mr. Mallett’s admittance to the 
convent burying-ground. 

” 1 shall point out the gate by which monsieur will enter; after 
that, the rest must depend on monsieur’s sagacity and on thfe ex- 
actness with which he carries out my directions. Sister Maria 
would have nothing to do with you directly; but she will arrange 
matters so that you can enter the convent by yourself and obtain a 
view of the tomb. As good fortune will have it, the lady superior 
is to-day entertaining a very high dignitary of the church, and some 
of the lay sisters are excused from vespers for the purpose of super- 
intending the dinner. Monsieur will envelop himself in Sister 
Marja’s cloak, and, if he is seen from the chapel windows, they will 
conclude it is but one of the sisters crossing the grave-yard to gather 
herbs from the garden which lies beyond.” 

Then followed a list of directions, to which Mr. Mailett paid the 
closest attention; and, as the old Spaniard conchided, they came 
within sight of the Convent of the Holy Assumption. It w^as a 
large, square stone building, the massive walls being relieved by 
small heavily barred windows, giving the place more the appearance 


A BITTER KECKOKIX-G. 


89 


ot a f 01 tress or a prison than a convent. A substantial stone wall 
eight feet high inclosed it on all sides, and on the east front were 
massive iron gates boarded high above the line ot sight to shield the 
sacred precincts from the vulgar gaze. Further on, on the west 
side, was a very small wicket, almost hidden under the masses of 
ivy^that hung half way to the ground. This door -^as the one used 
bjrtlie lay sisters when doing their errands, and a covered way led 
from it into the main entrance hall. 

The bells were still ringing for vespers as Mr. Mallett reached this 
half-hidden little gate, and, according, to directions from Castellan 
— who was lurking among the brushwood about fitty yards down 
the road — he gave a low, quick, triple knock three times over, and 
then waited with his eyes on his watch until five minutes had passed. 

The bells ceased ringing. I'his was the moment agreed on, and 
he pushed the door gently; it yielded, and the next moment he 
found himself in the dim light of a long narrow passage. 

He stooped and lifted a snuff-colored garment that lay at his feet. 
It was the huge cloak of a lay sister. He wrapped himself in the 
capacious garment, carefully drawing the hoocfwell over his head. 
Having taken oft his boots, he went stealthily along the passage, 
across a large stone-flagged entrance hall, and passed out of what he 
had been told was the main entrance into the iuclosure beyond. He 
paused here a moment and looked about him attentively. In a line 
with him stood the chapel on the extreme right, the door of which 
was open; and he saw the backs of the sisters as they knelt at 
their devotions. He caught a gleam of gorgeous color as the clear 
evening light fell through the east window^ upon the vestments of 
the priests at the high altar, and a faint odor of incense crept out 
upon the air. He drew the hood still closer over his beard and 
crossed the open space to the other side of the chapel. Here he had 
to pass a whole line of windows, and the profiles of the nuns were 
turned toward him. He now shortened his stride and drooped his 
shoulders the better to perform the part he was assuming, and passed 
' on without a glance tq the right or to the left. As soon as the win- 
dows were passed, he raised his head and looked round again. He 
W'as at the edge ot the burying-ground and over in the extreme 
corner under the walls he saw the stone he had come in search of. 
He recognized it by the semi-circular top — there was not another 
like it in the inclosure — and his heart quickened a little as he picked 
his W’^ay across the graves. 

* * * ' * * * * 

The sunset sky had changed from crimson to saffron, from saffron 
to a clear pearly gray, and still the brown cloak stood motionless 
before the headstone in the far corner of the convent arave-yard. 

Mr. Mallett had received a shock that entirely banished his pre- 
conceived ideas; and the new beliefs that crowded upon him were 
so conflicting and confusing thaX for a time he was overwhelmed 
with perplexity. 

“ Pauline Felling. Died May S9th, 18 — 

He retid the simple inscription over and over again; the more he 
pondered it, the less he understood how^ it was that he had been de- 
<;oyed by fate into this fruitless journey. 


90 


A BITTEll RECKONING. 


Why should his niece, Pauline ]\Ialling, have a picture ot the 
grave of Pauline Felling in her possession? — for he no longer 
doubted that the lady reigning at Mallingford Park was his niece^ 
and concluded that this was tlie grave ot some other person — pre- 
sumably the wife of his friend Captain Felling. lie remembered 
the captain’s impressive little story of liis unhappy marriage and its 
premature denouenient; and Mr. Mallett had no doubt whatever that 
he was now standing by the grave of that gentlernau’s wife. Still 
the question kept repeating itself: ^^hy should his niece — of the 
same Christian name too — treasure up this picture ot Mrs. Felling’s 
grave? He smiled to himself at the freak ot fortune that ordained 
the obliteration ot just the first two letters ot the surname, and 
wondered at the insignificance of the trifle that had drawn him from 
England on such a wild-goose chase! 

Sister Maria, to all appearance busy over her stewpans in the 
kitchen, was working herself into a fever of fright. She expected 
the exhortation to finish directly, and then the sisters would wander 
all about the grounds, and her mysterious visitor would be discov- 
ered. She quaked with fear as the consequences of her conduct 
presented themselves to her imagination. She had seen the brown 
cloak flit noiselessly past the half-closed kitchen door a quarter of an 
hour before; but she w^as sure it had not yet gone back. 

At last, unable to bear the anxiety any longer, she decided that 
she must at all risks go and warn the man away before harm came 
of his dilatoriness. Catching up a basket, and muttering a few 
words about garnishing to the other busy sisters, she started for the 
grave-yard. She hurried along, keeping welf out of sight of the 
sisters at their devotions, until she reached the Corner. 

“ Come away at once! You wdll be discovered; and 1 shall die 
of the severity of my penance!” she said, in an earnest whisper. 

Mr. Mallett was startled for a moment. 

“ Y^ou are the sister who helped Castellan to admit me?” 

“Tes; but, for pity’s sake, come away now, or we shall all be 
ruined 1”' 

There was no riustaking the terror in the poor woman’s face; and 
he started at once. They walked quickly over the grass; but, for 
all his hurr}^, Mr. Mallett managed to ask two questions and gei two 
replies before they reached the small door by which he had entered. 

” What soit of a person was that Fauline Felling, who lies buried 
there?” he asked. 

‘‘ She was a mere babe, only three months old. She was born in 
this convent, and died in my arms.” '' 

” Merciful Heaven!” exclaimed Mr. Mallett, gazing at her in blank 
astonishment. 

Sister Maria was hurrying him along the narrow passage, for 
every moment now might lead to discovery. 

” And its mother?” he gasped. 

” AVas the beautiful fair lady for whom Senoi Castellan took the 
view of the grave juel before she.set out for England.” 

And before Mr. Mallett had recovered from this last surprise, he 
found himself outside the door, with his boots on the path beside 
him, his brain in a whirl of conflicting thoughts. 

” Felling has by some means jumped to the conclusion, or been 


A BITTER RECKOillKa. 


91 


led to it intentionally, perhaps, tliat his wife died in this convent 
and is buried here, while in truth it is bis child’s .^rave, and his wife 
is still living; and, according to the present aspect of affairs. Pel- 
ling’s wite and Pauline Mailing are evidently one! And she, 
Pauline Mailing, or Polling, or whatever she is, is going to be mar- 
ried to Dorn ton to-morrow morning, and she has one husband still 
Jiving! 1 wonder if she knows that he is still alive? After all, if 
this turns out true— and it looks very like it— 1 shall resume my 
rightful position at Mallingford, for this girl has disobeyed the 
clause in Paul’s will about not marrying without Summers’ con- 
sent. And, by George! that provides the motive for her conduOt. 
She knew, if her husband found her, she would be compelled to 
resign the estate. Well, she has played a successful game so far; it 
is my' innings now.” 

And that evening Mr. Mallett, who had not been across a horse 
for nearly twenty years, rode the twelve miles of execrable road that 
lay between Yilla Silentio and Bassillia, and prepared and delivered 
personally several telegrams to be dispatched directly the office 
opened in the morning. 


CHAPTER XX. 

The eighteenth of September was a damp comfortless morning, 
and Mallingford Park looked particularly desolate. The sky was of 
a dull gray, and the rain drizzled steadily all the day through. 

Babette was busy in Miss Mailing’s dressing-room. It was half 
past nine o’clock, and she had just returned from seeing her mis- 
tress ofi; by train. None of the guests weie astir yet, and the house 
was unusually silent, as it was likely to be for some hours. The 
ball the previous night had been exceedingly spirited, and was 
not concluded until nearly six o'clock, so that the visitors would not 
be likely to be astir very early. 

Babette was to join her mistress at Charing Cross Station with 
the luggage at half past two, and, though her mind was full of tor- 
menting doubts as to the day’s events, she went about her business 
as methodically as though nothing unusual had happened. Ten-.- 
derly and carefully she folded up the elaborate gown of cream-col- 
ored satin, with its draperies of thick costly lace, and ils superb 
bouquets of deep crimson blossoms, in which Miss Mailing delight- 
ed the eyes of her admirers at the ball. Very circumspectly she 
placed the magnificent diamonds and rubies, with which her mis- 
tress had adorned her shapely throat and arms, in their cases, and 
then packed them in a small oaken box with steel clamps. Then 
she went round the room with her keys and locked and strapped the 
traveling-trunks one after another. That done, she sat down to 
wait, she knew not for what. 

******* 

Captain Pellihg received a telegram at a quarter to eleven that 
morning which filled him with surprise and curiosity. It ran: 

” At all risks get to Bishopsgate Church in time to see a wedding 
fixed for this morning, and obtain a good view of the bride’s face.’' 


92 


A BITTER RECRO^sING. 

The telegram had bnen dispatched from Bassillia. and he remem- 
bered the name as that of the nearest railway station to the convent 
where he had found his wife’s grave. Without knowing why, he 
felt that he must obey the telegram, and he pulled on his boots, 
snatched a hat Irom the stand as he rushed tlirough the hall, and 
was just in time to catch the eleven o’clock express for Waterloo. 
On arriving at his destination, Captain Felling ran his eyes rapidly 
down the cab rank within the station, picked out the smartest look- 
ing horse, sprung into the cab, and called through the trap to the 
driver: 

“ A sovereign if you reach Bishopsgate Church by twenty min- 
utes to twelve!” 

The horse justified his good opinion, and the drive was accom- 
plished in good time. The church doors were open, and a four- 
wheeled cab was waiting outside. He crept in very quietly, and 
walked up the aisle, not wishing to disturb the service, for he 
did not know what he was there for save to see the bride’s face. 
He judged rightly that his future conduct was to be guided by that 
inspection, 

The church was cold and gloomy this miserable morning, and a 
few persons were scattered here and there among the seats, attracted 
possibly more by curiosity than interest. 

As Felling advanced, he was struck by the subdued richness of 
the bride’s costume, and he was not a little surprised at the absence 
of the usual attendants — for the old lady standing behind 'the bride 
evidently filled the office of pew-opener. The bride and bridegroom 
were a fine couple, the man being quite six feet high, while the lady 
was also well proportioned. 

Felling went quietly along the chancel until he reached the end 
nearest to the altar, and then he waited for the bride to turn her 
lace toward him. 

The clergyman’s voice went on with the service: 

” W'ilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, Honor, and keep him 
in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all olher, keep thee only 
unto him, so long as ye both shall live?” 

Then, for the first time, she turned toward Felling. Her expres- 
sion was one of unmixed rapture as she raised her eyes to the bride- 
groom’s, and her lips were unclosed to speak the words ” 1 wull,” 
when she became aware of ’Felling’s fixed stare of horror. His gaze 
attracted her involuntarily, and she looked instinctively over Jack’s 
shoulder in his direction. 

Jack, wondering what was the matter, and fearing she was going 
to faint, prompted her with the short answer. She did not speak, 
but continued to gaze over his shoulder at the man who had so un- 
accountably riveted her attention. Her under jaw dropped spas- 
modically, her eyes became as fixed as those she was gazing into,, 
and every vestige of life and color left her face. 

The next thing Jack seemed to realize was that a gentleman wear- 
ing a light overcoat was speaking quietly to the astonished clergy- 
man, and suggesting that the lady should be tal^n to the vestry, as 
she was evidently very ill. 

The scattered congregation looked at each other in wondering 


A BITTER RECKONING. 


93 


curiosity as the bridal party disappeared. They lingered awhile 
until the old pew- opener returned and begged them to depart, as 
she desired to close the church. 

Pauline, with a dull, dazed despair in her eyes, sat in the vestry, 
listening to, witliout understanding, the conversation of the three 
men grouped around her. 

1 am* extremely sorry to have caused this esclandre^"’ Felling 
said, in answer to the clergyman’s request tor an explanation: “ but 
it would have been criminal to allow the matter to go further, tor 
the lady is my wife. ” 

Your wife?” echoed Jack, incredulously. 

“Yes, sir, my wife!” Felling repMed, with the least touch of 
Tiauteur. “ 1 have believed her to be dead for the last six years — in 
fact, 1 believed it so. thoroughly that 1 should not have beheved my 
e>es this morning if her own conduct had not betrayed her. It is 
possible that she thought 1 was dead, as 1 have been in Central 
Africa for several years; and 1 understand the expedition of which 
1 was a member has been three or four times reported in the news- 
papers as completely exterminated.” 

“ And how came you .to present yourself so opportunely this 
morning?” asked the clwgyman. 

“ That is more than I understand myself at present; but 1 think 
it is due to accidental discoveries made in Spain by a friend of mine 
who has gone thither on business of his own.” 

“ Interposition of Providence!” murmured the divine. 

“ Possibly,” said Felling—” though how it happens that I haye 
been led to believe in my wife's death all these years and never 
found out my mistake before I can not understand.” 

“ Miss Mailing took her mother’s name when she inherited the 
estate; perhaps That may explain matters,” put in Jack. 

“ What estate?” asked Felling, sharply. 

“ It is all too long to discuss now,” Jack answered; “ but no 
doubt the change of name accounts for your ignorance of your 
wife’s existence.” 

“ So you have been a rich woman, Pauline,” he said, turning to 
her kindly. He did not know yet how far this estrangement had 
been intentional on her part, and he would give her the benefit of 
the doubt. “ 1, too, have fallen on prosperous times. Now% what 
are you gci ag to do? Shall 1 see you home? Or shall 1 call on you 
to-morrow*, when you will be quieter and calmer? Or will you 
come and look at my little place now?” 

Then, tor the first time, Pauline raised her head: and again Jack 
saw the expression of the carved tigers’ heads as she answered her 
husband* 

“ 1 will not acc*ompany you anywhere; I would sooner kill my- 
self — for I hate you!” 

The shocked clergyman would have spoken; but Felling stopped 
him courteously but firmly. 

“ You must pardon me; but this is my affair, as you must ac- 
know*ledge, and mine only.” Then, turning to the raging woman, 
he went on, “ In those circumstances further discussion would be 
useless;” and only Jack, who w*a3 watching him closely, guessed 


H 


A BITTER RECKONING. 


what wonderful self-control he was exerting to keep himself from 
exposing and upbraiding the faithless wonian to whom he spoke. 
“I will give you the atidress of my solicitor, and all future com- 
munications must be made through him.” He wrote the address 
on a leaf of his pocket-book, tore it out, and placed it on the table 
beside her. ” And now, Mrs. Felling, may i see you to your cab?’^ 

She rose and drew herself up defiantly. 

“ You have forgotten the address,” Felling said. 

*■ 1 shall not require it, thank you.” 

“ Very good, I shall know all I want to know, nevertheless.” 

She swept from the vestr}'^; and Felling followed her in polite at 
tendance. He returned in a few seconds. 

” And now, Mr. Doruton,” he said, ” if you will favor me with 
your company, 1 shall be glad to give and receive explanations.” 

After wishing the clergyman ” Good-morning,” the two men 
'jumped into the cab which brought Felling from the station, and 
drove to an hotel. They talked on indifferent subjects until they 
were in possession of a private room, and the waiter had finally re- 
tired, after receiving orders for luncheon in half an hour. Then 
Felling turned to Jack and began: 

” It seems to me that you and 1 are fated to cross each other’s 
paths, Mr. Hornton. 1 have heard you spoken of pretty often 
lately by a Mr. Mallett, a particular fiiend of mine.” 

” Indeed?” said Jack, uncomfortably, not relishing this sudden 
and intentional introduction of the Malletts’ name; for, since his 
conversation with Lord Summers, Jack felt less proud than ever of 
his own share in the ruptuie with Ethel. He thought, too, that Mr. 
Felling would not have heard much to his credit from that source. 

“ 1 see what you are thinking,” Felling observed; ” but you are 
wrong. Mr. Mallett has spoken of you to me only as a promising 
man in your profession. ’The other matter that is in your mind I 
took the liberty of finding out for myself. Now, 1 have a proposi- 
tion to make to you.” 

Felling paused and looked attentively at the young man. He 
knew there was not much generosity in giving Ethel up, as he could 
not marry her himself during the lifetime of his wife, and, having 
plenty of true manliness, he did not mean to make any show of the 
miserable pain that was gnawing at his heart: but he felt he should 
like to knov/ what sort of man this was whose path he intended to 
smooth for him as far as lay in his power; and, while he thought 
of this^ the memory of Ethel’s face, pained and sorrowful as he saw 
it when she made to him her confession of love for this Dornton 
came suddenly before him, and he knew that the greatest kindness 
he could do her would be to restore hei faithless lover. 

“You must be patient with me, and not accuse me of imperti- 
nence, w^hen you hear what 1 have to say, for i really want to do 
you the best turn you ever had done you in all your life.” 

He stopped again, and took a few turns across the room. 

Jack wondered it his present labored style of talking was usual 
with him; he spoke as if the utterance of each word cost him a 
pang. Fresently he stopped in front of Jack, and said, abruptly; 

“You have nearly broken Ethel’s heart.” 


A BITTER RECKOXIIs^G. 95 

Jack flushed furiously, and half rose fiom his chair. Felling mo- 
tioned to him to keep calm. 

“ 1 asked you to be patient with me,’' he reminded Jack. “ My 
motive'should excuse me to you. The pith of the whole matter is 
this — was the engagement between you and Ethel broken ofi: in con- 
sequence of vour infatuation tor my wife, or had you ceased to care 
for her before you met Pauline? As man to man, I ask you for a 
truthful answer.” 

“1 can’t for the life of me understand by what right,” began 
JacK, hotly. 

“ For Heaven’s sake, don’t waste time in splitting straws when 
so much is at stake!” Felling said, impetuously. ‘‘ You can’t 
understand my right to interfere? 1 will explain. 1 love Ethel 
Mallett as 1 never loved, never shall love, never believed it possible 
to love; and until this morning 1 had the hope of making her my 
wife some day, when she had had lime to forget you and your 
cowardly brutality. Forgive me — 1 did not mean to touch on that 
part of the business. Let us stick to our point. I think my love 
for her gives me the right to do what 1 can to secure her happi- 
ness; and 1 believe — nay, 1 am sure — her happiness re^ts with 
you. 1 can’t have her mj^self, or 1 do not think 1 could be 
unselfish enough to give her up. 1 might; but i don’t think it. 
Now — to return to our point— was your infatuation for my wife the 
only cause of the estrangement between you two?” 

Jack was greatly impressed, as he understood now wh}^ Felling 
spoke with so much effort, and he felt touched by Ids devotion. 
Added to this was the feeling of shame that had oppressed him ever 
since his talk with Lord Summers. 

“Come — you needn’t mind confessing your weakness to me,” 
Petling went on, encouragingly. “Bless you, man, 1 know how 
Pauline can twist any man round her finger if she likes to try! 1 
suppose she was smitten with you, and spread her nets to snare 
you, and you, not seeing the snare, found yourself passionately 
enamored of her without knowing how it happened. And 1 dare 
say, if the truth were known, when the first mad burst was oyer, 
and you thought out things quietly, you would have given a good 
deal never to have seen her at all, and wished you had behaved 
differently to Miss Mallett.” 

JacR jumped up, with his face beaming, and wrung Felling’s 
hand. 

“ 1 could not say it myself, but that is really just how it has been 
with me. lam not good at expressing my feelings; but 1 know 
yo{i are behaving very well to me — much better than 1 deserve — and 
1 thank you. And now what do you wish me to do?” 

“ Go right away for a few months. 'W rite to me now and again, 
and 1 will take care that Miss Mallett hears whatever is likely to be 
of use to you. Give her time to forget the indignity you have put 
on her and her love. I shall be at hand in the character of a 
benevolent patriarch, and the moment I see signs favorable to our 
plot 1 will bring about a meeting. The rest will lie with yourself.” 

“ How can 1 thank you?” 

“You owe me no thanks. Believe your mind on that point. 
"What 1 am doing 1 do out of my sincere wish for Miss Mallett ’s 


9C 


A BITTER RECKONING. 


happiness. If really think you owe me anything pay it in 
kindness to youi wife after, you are married. Here is luncheon. 
"We will talk by and by of your immediate plans.’' 

When they had finished luncheon, and Jack had left, Felling lay 
down on the haid horsehair sofa, with his hands under his head, 
gazing steadfastl}'’ at the ceiling; and it was not until the evening, 
when the waiter came to light the gas, that he was roused from his 
deep reverie. He then pulled himself together, called for his bill, 
and having settled i1, went out into the wretched night. 

* ****** 

When Pauline left her husband at the church door she knew that 
her scheming had been futile, and that she could never again show 
her face at Mallingtord; but it was not that which caused her the 
agony of mind she was suffering. 

She had lost Jack. The one pure unselfish cup of joy she had 
longed to taste had been snatched from her lips at the moment of 
raising. She was stunned with despair. 

Why had her poverty-stricken husband, whom she had had suffi- 
cient excuse for believing dead all these years, lived to bring this 
misery on her? she asked herself vainly; but she had no thought 
for the possible hardships he might have undergone during those 
six years which she had passed so luxuriously. 

The future stretched before her, a long, dreary, monotonous 
waste, and she saw herself unloved and unloving. She had made 
up her mind to lead a good, unselfish life ■with Jack, to try to be 
more open, more honest and straightforward than she had been in 
the past. She had over and over again pictured to herself the one 
stormy scene they would have after their marriage, when she should 
tell him ot her previous marriage, and the deceit it had entailed, Jind 
she had dwelt with exquisite pleasure ou the joy of their reconcilia- 
tion — tor how could Jack withstand her loving self-abasement, her 
pitiful appeal for pardon, and her hearty promises never to be 
guilty of another unworthy action? And ’then, perhaps* Jack, 
in his honest way, would insisi upon Lord Summers being 
told everything, and perhaps Mallingford might be taken from 
them! Hut even then the}" would still have each other, and she 
would be a good helpmate and faithful wife to him, helping and 
encouraging him to cross the stony places that, more or less, form 
part of Uie path to tame tor those who tread it. 

But fate had been very cruel to her. She bad hoped to atone for 
her past life; but, as the opportunity liad been denied her, she 
would finish in her own way, and fill her life with reckless rioting, 
and live so that she might have no spare moments to think of what 
might have been. She would go back to the feverish excitement ot 
her youth— she would go to Paris and gamble — do anything that 
offered the means ot killing time and thought. 

She paced up and down the platform at Charing Cross Station, 
watching for Babette and concocting plans for obtaining what 
ready money she could before the grand denouement came. She 
knew her jewels must be worth at least five thousand pounds, and, 
though some of them were heir-looms, and others had been bought 
with money obtained by her dishonestly, she would not scruple to 


A BITTf:R EECKONIKG. 97 

apply them to her personal use. Then she would draw at once two 
thousand trom her bankers. She would go and do this personally 
lest they might scruple to pay so large a sum on a check. And so 
she laid her miserable plans, refusing to listen for one moment to 
the prompting of her better nature, which would even now suggest 
her return to the husband whose only sin had been his poverty. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

Notwithstanding all Felling’s efforts, the story soon got into 
the newspapers, and, it Being the dull season, was seized upon with 
avidity by the gossip-purveyors. It was “dished” and “re- 
dished ” day after day, with numberless distortions, exaggerations, 
and additions. One society journal had it that the beautiful Miss 

M of M Park, in Exbridgeshire, had attempted to poison her 

husband, to whom she had been secretly married only a month or 
two, in order to become the wife of a celebrated R. A., with whom 
she had fallen deeply in love; while another declared that the in- 
jured husband presented himself at the altar with pistols, and, drag- 
ging his would-be successor outside the sacred edifice, insisted upon 
a duel (I outrance there and then, and wounded him dangerously in 
the shoulder, and that the unfortunate man now lay in a most 
critical condition, while the husband had carried oft his reluctant 
bride, a veritable prisoner, on board his yacht, for a twelvemonth’s 
cruise in the Pacific. 

At last Felling, annoyed beyond measure at these absurd stories, 
decided to lay bare the truth. "With the assistance of his lawyer, 
he drew up a concise statement of the real facts, giving his own 
and Pauline’s name in full, but suppressing Jack’s, fle carefully 
conveyed the idea that Pauline believed him to be dead, and gave 
the circumstance of her change of name as sufficient to account for 
his not having discovered her existence since his return from Africa. 
This he sent to two of the daily newspapers; and, thus divested of 
all mystery, the story lost its charm, and no longer afforded any 
interest. 

Felling sent one of these newspapers, with his own letter specially 
distinguished, to Ethel by post; and the next morning he called in 
Buckingham Street to make matters clearer. 

It was now a week since the interrupted wedding and Pauline’s 
flight, and, strangely enough, he had not heard anything of the 
change in Mr. Mallett’s circumstances. He had been fighting his 
own battle, and even yet he could hardly trust himself in Etliel’s 
presence; he doubted if he had gained sutEcient mastery over his 
feelings to enable him to act the part of the disinterested elderly 
friend. As he mounted the stairs he remembered with pain how 
happy he was the last time he came down those same stairs, and he^ 
felt inclined to turn and fly. 

But Ethel’s trank candor once more overcame the difficulties of 
the situation ; she stood at the top of the stairs with her hands out- 
stretched and her face bright with friendly interest. 

“ 1 have been longing to see you,” she began, warmly, as they 
4 


98 


A EITTEU liECKOXIXGT. 


entered the room; “ we have both so much that is wonderful to tell 
each other!” 

She looked at him steadfastly as he stood in the light from the 
window, and what she saw in his face quickened her pulse with a 
sudden pity; but she would not give way to the impulse that urged 
her to console him. She went on, a little hurriedly at first : 

” 1 can see that your pleasant news is in some way mixed up with 
painful thoughts; so, as mine is altogether pleasant, I shall speak 
first. To begin — papa came home last night, and he has brought 
thb most wonderful news; it is like a fairy- tale! 1 don’t suppose 
you know yet that your wife is my cousin?” — Capt. Pelliug started 
at the words—” 1 knew you would be greatly surprised. My father 
is not really Mr. Mallett — his true name is Sir Geoffrey Mailing, 
and be is your wife’s uncle. In some extraordinary way, which 
papa will explain, the whole of the Mallingtord property comes to 
him in the event of Pauline’s marrying under twenty-five without 
her guardian’s consent; so, you see, we are going to be very great 
people. 1 believe my mother was not so well born as papa, and the 
late baronet was so angry when he heard of the marriage that he 
disinherited papa, who at once changed his name and worked hard 
to keep his wife. 1 think it must have been very trying to him, 
after his luxurious bringing up, don’t j^ou? How astonished you 
look! I hope you are not angry with us because we are going to 
take away your wife’s wealth. Of course that is only nonsense! 1 
know you are not angry: I’ve heard you say often how glad you 
would'have been to share what you have with her.’^ 

Ethel paused. Pelling did not speak, and she felt a little anxious. 
She had unintentionally stumbled upon the subject; but she knew it 
could not be avoided between them, so she screwed up her courage 
and went on: 

” Perhaps I should not say what I am going to say; but no real 
harm can come from straightforwardness. We have been such 
good friends in the past — and 1 hope we shall continue to be so in 
the future— that w^e need not stay to pick and choose our words to 
each other, need we? I want to congratulate you on the recovery 
of your wife; but there is something in your lace that checks me. 
Will you tell me all about it?” 

Pelling leaned forward and tooK her hand. She shrunk a little at 
his touch; but, whatever the feeling was that caused her to recoil 
she kept all sign of it from her face as she sat opposite to him wait- 
ing for him to speak. 

” 1 can’t tell you all about it,” he said, presently. ” 1 only know 
that my wife refused to have anything to do with me— said she 
would kill herself sooner — and that she is now in Paris, leading a 
reckless life, and doing everything that I should wish my wife not 
to do.” 

Ethel looked surprised. 

” If 1 were you 1 should go to Paris, too,” she said. 

” 1 suppose 1 ought — in fact, 1 know I ought — and 1 have tried 
to make up my mind to go; but 1 can not.” 

For an instant he dropped his head upon his hand, and a great 
rush of pity set Ethel’sheart beating oddly. He pulled himself 
together with an impatient exclamation. 


A BITTER RECKOisIis'^G. 


99 


What a bore you uiiust think me!” he said, quickly. “ Let us 
drop the subject." If I ever find you can help me in any way, L 
will come to you at once. As things are now, the less said the bet- 
ter.” 

Then, turning the conversation, he added; 

‘‘And so you are to possess the wealth which Pauline has for- 
feited? 1 am very glad— very, very glad— on all accounts but one. ” 

” And that is?” 

‘‘ It will make Dornton’s task harder.” 

The blood rushed over Ethel’s face in a quick flush, and it left 
again as quickly. 

” 1 don’t know what you mean,” she said. 

” 1 mean that Dornton was beguiled by my unhappy wife into 
doing as he did, that he was not master of his own actions, and that 
lie would give a very great deal to be assured of your entire forgive- 
ness. He has loved you all through his mad folly. He told me so 
himself on the very day of the wedding, before he could have 
known anything of the change in your worldly affairs; so, when 
you think of him in the future, you must not believe he was gov- 
erned by mercenary considerations.” 

A.11 through this speech Ihe wonder had deepened on Ethel’s face, 
and she looked at him steadily. 

‘‘ Thank you for your kind defense of him,” she responded, ris- 
ing as her father entered the room. “I will remember to do as you 
fiay;” and she turned gayly to the door. ” And now let me intro- 
duce you to Sir Geoffrey Mailing of Mallingford Park.” 

‘‘ 1 need not tell you how glad 1 am to hear of this wonderful 
business,” Pelling said, shaking hands warmly. “And now you 
must tell me how you came across the evidence of my wife’s exist- 
ence, and how you, of all people, heard of her intended marriage, 
•.for.l am brimming over with curiosity. It seems to me that fate 
has interwoven our destinies noUm 

* ****** 

A few weeks later Ethel and her father were settled at Mailing- 
ford. All the necessary legal formalities had been gone through, 
and tlie county families had called upon Sir Geoffrey and Ids 
daughter. Lord Summers had suggested that the baronet should 
have a public reception; but Sir Geoffrey had sternly and emphatic- 
ally opposed any such demonstration. So father and daughter had 
come down and been met at the railway station by the tamily 
carriage, and had gone quietly to their respective rooms, after shak- 
ing hands with a few of the old servants whom Sir Geoffrey remem- 
bered in his brother’s time, and had eaten their first dinner at Mal- 
lingford as if they had but just returned from a short visit. 

But the next morning, as they lingered over their late breakfast, 
Sir Geoffrey realized that he was not to be allowed to lake posses- 
sion in the quiet manner he had wished. 

It was the third week in November. The fine old trees that lined 
the drive were stripped of their summer finery, and there was a 
slight touch of frost in the air. Sir Geoffrey was deep in a political 
article, and Ethel was feasting her eyes on the delicate tracery of 
the bare elms against the steel-blue sky. 


100 


A BITTER RECKONING* 


‘‘ What are all those men doing, 1 wonder?’* slie remarked pres- 
ently. Her father took no notice, but continued his reading until 
she added, “ Look, papa— there are at least litty men coming up 
the avenue.** 

Sir Geoftrey then glanced up from his ncTvspaper. 

“It is a deputation of the tenantry,** he said, dejectedly. 

Come, Ethel — we may as well face the inevitable.** 

So it happened that, in spite of himself. Sir Geoffrey had to listen 
to a speech of welcome; and, after he had thanked the men for their 
kind expressions of good will, some one in the background shouted 
out, “ Three cheers for Sir Geoffrey, and may every man have liis 
own!** — and the hall rung again with the echoes of their lusty 
voices. Then the same enthusiast insisted upon “ Another for the 
young lady!** — and this was responded to as heartily as the other 
proposal. 

Sir Geoffrey, with a gratified gleam in his eyes, and a softened 
look about his mouth, turned to Mrs. Peikins, who, with the rest of 
the servant^, had hurried into the back part of the hall, and told her 
to do the best she could to make their guests welcome. There was 
a hasty tapping of barrels, and a cold collation was soon set before 
the enthusiastic tenantry. 

Sir Geoffrey's wealthy neighbors, too, were not less hearty in 
their welcome. Poor Ethel wearied of the calls of elegantly dressed 
women who came to pay their respects to her: but she did her best 
to pla}" the part of hostess, and the unanimous opinion among the 
ladies was that she was “quite nice — so different from what one 
would expect from her bringing up!’* 

At the end of a iort night Ethel felt as it matters had never been 
different. She had become used to the morning chats with Mrs. 
Perkins and the afternoon gossip with neighbors, and she was get- 
ting resigned to the continual presence of a maid in her rooms. 
This was very distasteful to her at first; and it was only in defer- 
ence to her father’s strongly expressed wish that she consented to 
endure the infiiction. 

Sir Geoffrey had slipped back naturally enough into his old life. 
His twenty yeeirs* struggle with the world had given him a keener 
appreciation of his present comforts than he would ever have ex- 
perienced without it, and he had but one regret — that the sweet, 
lovable woman fur whose sake he had sacrificed all this worldly 
prosperity years before was not now with him to enjoy his recovery 
of it. He packed away his drawing paraphernalia, locked up the* 
box with a feeling that he was throwing from him a heavy burden^ 
and made up his mind never to handle pencil or brush again. 

Thefe were moments, however, in spite of the many duties of 
her new position, when Ethel felt a dreary emptiness, when she felt 
a dissatisfied longing for something which all her luxurious sur- 
roundings could not give her. At such times she told herself that 
she would gladly relinquish all the pomp and circumstance of the 
present to enjoy the unalloyed happiness that had been hers in the 
past. 

When in this mood, her thoughts generally wandered to Jack. 
She was truly sorry for him, and wished she could tell him so; but, 
after all that had happened, she could not forget what w^as due to 


A' EITTER RECKONING. 


101 


her own self-respect. But there could be no harm, she decided, in 
asking Captain J^'eHing if he had heard of him lately. Poor Captain 
Felling I She was sorry for him too, and she admired him more 
than she had ever admired any man, always excepting her father. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

It was Sir Geoffrey’s first dinner party, and Ethel felt just a little 
nervous as she received the guests. Captain Felling, who had 
arrived to-day for a week’s stay, was watching her in the pauses of 
his chat with Bertha Collins. He caught her eye presently, and 
smiled at her reassuringly, for she had confided to him her dread of 
the awful occasion. 

You are an old friend of theirs, are you not?” Bertha was say- 
ing to the captain. “ We all think Miss JVIalling quite charming. 
1 took to her from the first; but, do you know, she is not easy to 
get on with. Of course she is all one could wish as a hostess; but 
it is impossible to gush with her. She has a way ot sitting all one 
says, and showing up anything that is absurd, without certainly in 
the least intending to give offense. You would hardly believe it, I 
daresay; but 1 have adopted the habit of trying to talk seriously 
when she is listening.” 

Felling was amused, and he did not conceal it. 

” 1 think that is the greatest compliment you could pay her,” he 
said. “ Will you adop^the same practice with me?” 

Miss Collins shook her head, with a look of intense wisdom. 

“I should not dare,” she replied, with mock gravity. “If 1 
were to get a reputation for seriousness, I should probably die an 
old maid. ” 

“ Why so?” 

“ As if you did not know! Men always prefer frivolous talkefs 
for their wives. There is the dinner-bell. Are you to take me 
down?” 

Later in the evening Miss Collins dropped into a quiet corner and 
discussed things with the utmost freedom with an intimate friend 
whom she had not seen since the end of the season. She was de- 
scribing the breaking up of the party when Pauline’s intended mar- 
riage had been discovered. 

“ Xow tell me— could there be anything more ridiculous than her 
running away from her own house and marrying, or trying to 
marry, a man secretly, when there was no one to prevent her aoing 
it openly? My dear, you should have seen our faces when Mrs. 
Sefton — her chaperone, you know— read us the note she had left be- 
hind, as we dropped in, one after another to luncheon! At first 
everybody looked very surprised, and then the absurdity of the 
whole proceeding struck us. Why could she not have been married 
properly? ]No one could have objected to her marrying that good- 
looking artist if she chose to do so.” 

“ Was she very much * gone ’ on him?” 

“ Awfully! It must have been a terrible blow to her when her 
husband turned up.” 


102 


A BITTER RECKOi^ING. 


“ Rather! Isn’t it odd, his bein^ here?” 

“ 1 don’t think so. He was very ^ood to 3ir Geoflrey when he 
was in less affluent circumstances, 1 believe.” 

” Things seem a bit mixed. From what I could make out, he 
had believed himself a widower, just as she had thought herself a 
widow, until they met in the church. Don’t you think it probable 
that, while he was under the impression that his wife was dead, he 
may have had a liking for Miss Mailing?” 

“ 1 believe you are right,” Bertha, replied energetically, “fori 
saw him looking at her before dinner with his heart in his eyes.” 

” ]t is certainly very strange that he should have fallen in love 
with the girl who was being kept out of her right position by his 
own wife! It looks like the finger of Fate, doesn’t it— though 
which way the finger is pointing 1 can’t see.” 

As the guests, one after another, took their departure, Ethel felt 
her burden lightening. Her first party had been an unqualified suc- 
cess, but she was none the less glad to have it over. 

Lord Summers stayed behind, talking earnestly with Sir Geoffrey. 

“ I admit I was disappointed when I heard that she had taken the 
family jewels with her,’^ he said, in allusion to Pauline. “ I’m 
afraid she has inherited some of her father’s want of principle. The 
Luftons were never particularly distinguished for honesty. What 
do you mean to do about it, Geofitrey?” 

“ About what?” 

“ The recovery of the jewels.” 

“ JSothing openly. I am in communication with her waiting- 
maid, who has promised to let me know if there is any idea on 
Pauline’s part of selling them, and I shall, unknown to her, become 
the purchaser.” 

“ An excellent idea and a very generous one. By the bye, as 
things have turned out, how fortunate it is that the engagement be- 
tween our charming Ethel and young Dornton was — ” 

He stopped suddenly as Ethel and Pelling came back from bid- 
ding farewell to Miss Collins. They both caught the drift of his 
words, and Ethel glanced at Felling’s face; but it was calmly un- 
conscious. Thinking this a good opening to talK of jack, she said: 

“ If you are not too tired, 1 want to show you a delightful style 
of title-page that I came across this morning. I thought you might 
elaborate the idea for your ‘ Central Africa.’ It is on this table some- 
where.” 

“ I am afraid my share of ‘ Central Africa ’ will not be anything 
to be proud of,” he replied, with a smile. 

Ethel was busy searching for the book as she answered deci- 
sively: 

“ That is nonsense, and you know it. Captain Pelling! I have 
made up my mind that your sketches are to be the principal attrac- 
tion of the book. It is really unkind of you to make light of your 
>vork after all our interest in it!” 

“ That is just it,” he returned laughingly. “1 have become so 
accustomed to working in company that I find I can’t move a step 
by myself.” 

The words rather startled Ethel, for she discerned more meaning 
in them than they bore on the surface. She hud seen very little of 


A BITTEli' KECKONIKG. 


103 


the captain since her father’s return from Spain, and she was sud- 
denly struck by the great alteration in his face. There were lines 
of pain and trouble round his mouth which she had never noticed 
before, and the knowledge seemed to come to her suddenly that this 
man loved her still, that he loved her in spite of himself. She had 
seen enough of him to know that he was the soul oi honor, and 
she gauged the depth of his love by the fact that his heart refused 
in this instance to be governed by his sense of right. In her great 
pity for him she forgot all about her intended inquiries after Jack. 

“We are great friends, are we not?” she asked, after a pause. 

He looked surprised at her irrelevancy, as he answered: 

“ 1 hope and think so.” 

“ And you would not be offended at anything 1 should say for 
your good?” 

Captain Felling thought he knew what was coming, and he pre- 
pared himself for the shock. 

“ Go on,” he said between his clinched teeth, and waited with 
knitted brows for what she had to say. 

Kthel, in her short life, had often had unpleasant tasks to per- 
form, but never one so unpleasant as this. 

“ Out of your own mouth shall you be judged,” she began, smil- 
ing at him to hide the trembling of her lips. “You say you have 
become so used to working in company that you can not move a 
step by yourself; but I say you must take the one needful step by 
yourself that will secure you good company to work in for the rest 
of your life. Go to Paris at cmce, seek out 3 'our wife, and give her 
the protection of your presence. She will yield. You must not 
judge her by her words when you last met. You had her at a cruel 
disadvantage. Think what an awful shock your sudden appearance 
must have been to her! It is very, very hard for me to say this to 
you, after all your kindness to us in the past; but you will not mis- 
judge my motive. 1 am speaking for your good. By and by, when 
you are quite happy with each other, you will be thankful to me 
for sending jmu away in this abrupt manner.” 

“ Y^ou wish me to go at once?” he asked. 

“ That is a very cruel way to put it,” she answered, gently'. 
“You know 1 do not — so far as 1 am personally concerned— wish 
you to go at all. True friends are not so plentiful that one can 
afford to play battledore and shuttlecock with them for one’s own 
pleasure. For your own good, Captain Felling, 1 advise your going 
at once.” 

As she said this, she caught a gleam from his eyes which gave a 
meaning she had not intended to her words. Be belieyed she was 
alluding to the danger to him of being in her presence continually. 
She faltered, and a distressed flush colored her face; her eyes fell, 
and her lips trembled warningly. He pushed forward a low chair, 
and put her into it. 

“You are one of the best women that ever lived,” he exclaimed, 
“ and 1 am proud to have had you for a friend! 1 ought to liave 
known my presence would give you pain, and refused Sir Geoffrey’s 
invitation. Don’t speak until I’ve finished,” he went on, hurriedly, 
holding up his hand to check any interruption. “ I shall follow 


104 


A BITTER RECKONING. 


3’'oui advice to the letter. I will thrust aside my own inclinations, 
and run over to Paris and see what Mrs. Pellin.ej is doin^, spend 
Chi is! mas among the Frenchmen, and perhaps in the New Year 
Captain and Mrs. Pelling may have the honor'of receiving Sir 
Geoftrey and Miss Mailing at the Wigwam.” 

For once Ethel looked at him with her eyes brimming with tears; 
but she did not dare make an attempt to speak. lie took her hand 
, in his, and held it close as he finished. 

“ You must make some plausible excuse to- Sir Geofiirey for my 
abrupt departure in the morning; or, better still, 1 will wire from 
town. 1 shall write to you from Paris, if I may. And now, before 
1 say good-night, 1 must give you this letter. 1 received it two 
days ago from Dornton. I know it will please you. He and 1 cor- 
respond regularly; so 1 shall keep you posted up in his movements. 
Good-by, my true, honest little friend.” 

She sat, as h^ left her, holding Jack^s letter in her hand, hearing 
his voice very faintly in the distance as he excused himself with the 
plea of fatigue to her father, and wondeiing how it had happened 
that this interview, which she had brought about for the sole pur- 
pose of hearing news of Jack, had ended in so sudden a determina- 
tion bn the captain’s part to seek his wife. She knew his resolve 
was the result of her advice, and she hoped devoutly that good 
might come of it. 

And Pelling mounted the wide stairs very slowly, deep in thought 
as he went. 

“ She is quite right, as she is always. It is the only thing to do; 
and 1 never saw it myself. My place is undoubtedly by my wife’s 
side. ” 


CHAPTER XXIll. 

1 TELL you your presence here is an unwarrantable intrusion! 
If you do not leave my apartment of your own free will, 1 shall be 
compelled to have you ejected!” 

It was the third day since Pelling left Ethel, and this was his 
wife’s greeting! He had had a long battle with himself; but duty 
had been triumphant, and his mind once made up he was not to be 
discouraged by a. few bitter words. 

” That is not necessary. Of course 1 will leave you; but you 
will not refuse to answer me one or two questions firstf” 

This quiet manner w^as quite difierent from tie masterful tone 
Pauline had expected; she could hold her own if he stormed or up- 
braided her, but she hardly saw her way to quarrel with a man 
who refused to quarrel. 

” Ask your questions then, and, if 1 choose to answer them, 1 
will. If 1 don’t choose, 1 will not. But, for Heaven’s sake, get 
over them quickly!” 

Pelling sat down, and Pauline watched him in sullen silence. He 
looked round the handsomely furnished bill untidy room, and pres- 
ently his gaze came back to his wife, beautiful even in her disha- 
bille; and, as he looked at her, his heart almost failed him, and he 
asked himself angrily why he should take so much trouble to ac- 


A BITTER RECKCLN'ING. 


105 


complisli an end which he so little desired. Her handsome brown, 
eyes were watching him with a furtive hate, and her finely formed 
lips were pressed together vindictively. He half rose from his chair 
with the intention of leaving her, when the thought of the little 
grave-stone in a far-oft land determined him to stay. 

Will you tell me something of our child, Pauline?” he asked. 

She sprung up with a look of desperate fright on her face. 

“ How dare you come here to browbeat me like this?” she ex- 
claimed, vehemently; and then she sunk back on the couch again. 
But, after a pause, she said quietly enough: “You have touclied 
my one weak point. Of course you have a right to hear wdiat 
there is to tell. My baby was born a weakly little thing. I had 
hard work to keep body and soul together in those first days after 
my father’s death. 1 knew from the first she could not live long. 
She died when she was three months old.” 

“ 1 wish she had lived.” 

Pauline looked at him as if she doubted his reason. 

“ Why do you wish such a mad thing as that?” 

“ Because, if it had not been for seeing her grave, I should have 
gone on searching for you until 1 found you.” 

“ Ah! And if you had found me then, if you had come to Mal- 
lingford quietly and said, ' Pauline, you are my wife; come with 
me,’ do you know what 1 would have done? 1 would have killed 
you! 1 would kill you even now, if your death would undo any 
of the harm you have worked me! But it is all over— everything 
is over— and the next thing you will hear is that 1 have killed my- 
self!” 

The words were spoken very quietly, very earnestly. 

“ Why do you hate me so bitterly, Pauline?” he asked; and he 
studied her attentively while she answered: 

“ Because you have been my evil genius ever since I became your 
wife. If 1 had not married you, my life might have been as happy 
and pleasant as other women’s lives are. No sooner did 1 know that 
I was my uncle’s heiress than my happiness was destroyed by hear- 
ing that 1 was to inherit only on the condition that 1 did not marry 
without my guardian’s consent.. Thanks to you, this condition 
was already broken ; and my six years of possession have been im- 
bittered by the certainty in my own mind that you tvere alive some- 
where and would surely find me some day, and deprive me of all 
that 1 had risked so much to obtain.” 

“ I think 1 begin to understand,” Polling said, quietly. You 
had known so well the bitterness of -poverty in your father’s life- 
time that, when you saw this chance of wealth, you were tempted 
too strongly. You felt you could sacrifice everything and every- 
body it you could forever place yourself beyond the reach of want. 
My poor girl! if 1 could have found you— if you had not taken 
such pains to throw me off your track — what sorrow might have 
been spared us both ! Two days after 1 left you so suddenly in 
Rome I found myself the possessor of an income of over three thou- 
sand a year. Ah, Pauline, if you had only acted honestly, how 
comparatively happy we might have been!” 

“ Three thousand a year!” she repeated, absently. 

The look of active hate had given place to one of apathetic de- 


106 


A BlTTEll IlECKOXI]SG. 


spair. They remained steadily regarding each other for a few mo- 
ments. Suddenly she burst into a fit of soul-freezing laughter. 

And people say there is a Providence!’’ slm cried wildly. “ If 
1 had known this at that time, when 1 had some kindness for you 
in my heart, how different matters might have been!” 

“ And you would have known it had it not been for the barrier 
your own trickery had raised between us. ’Tis your own sin that 
has done the evil.” 

Xgain her mood changed, and she turned upon him suddenly. 

” 1 consented to answer or to listen to one or two questions; but 
lean dispense with ail preaching,” she said defiantly. ” If you 
have asked all you want to know, 1 beg you to leave me.” 

Felling sighed heavily and took up his hat. 

“ You rvill let me come and see you again?” 

‘‘Why? Y ou do not care for me in the least. Why should you 
lake so much trouble to be civil to me?” 

” You are my wile. No amount of dislike or shortcoming on 
^our part alters that fact. We have been very unfortunate in the 
past. 1 can see you are unhappy; and, in an indirect way, 1 am the 
cause of your unhappiness. 1 would give a great deal to make 
things brighter for you, if you would let me.” 

She was touched by the earnestness of his manner and tone. 

“You are very good,” she said; “ and 1 am sorry I behaved so 
badly to you.” 

She stood silent for a few moments. Felling watching her quiet- 
ly: while they so stood, the clock on the mantel-piece struck twelve. 

“You must go now,” she told him hurriedly. “ 1 have an ap- 
pointment to ride with some friends. Come again at tliis time to- 
morrow. ’ ’ 

He did not attempt any outward display of affection, but turned 
at the door, saying; 

“ Until to-morrow, then ” — and passed down the stairs. 

He met Babette half way down. 

“ With whom does your mistress ride to-day?” be asked. 

“ With the Baroness de Belette ” — a woman well known for the 
pertinacity with which she had clung to the extreme edge of re- 
spectable society for the last five years while defying many of its 
laws. “ They have a wager as to wbu will ride the greatest dis- 
tance on a horse belonging to Monsieur Crevin which has always 
refused to carry. a lady. ’ 

Felling went on with a little unacknowledged anxiety in his heart. 
He would go back and try to dissuade Fauline from this mad freak, 
but that he knew it would be useless; and any show of authority on 
his part just now might perhaps undo the little good he believed he 
had accomplished. 

He drove straight back to his hotel, and sat with his chin resting 
on his hands at the little table in the window of his room. He was 
in a strange state of mingled hope and dread. He did not know 
what he wished; he only knew that he meant to do what he con- 
ceived to be his duty; the rest he must leave in higher hands. 

As he sat there, nis thoughts wandered to Ethel, now forever re- 
moved from his path in life, a sweet, fair dream of what might have 


A BITTER RECKONING. 


] 0 ? 

been. He sighed as he recalled her vivid smile of thanks gleaming 
through her tears when he placed Jack Dornton’s letter in her hand. 

Whilst thus musing over the past, he was brought back to the 
present by the sight of his wife cantering by in company with sev- 
eral others; and, following them, he noticed a fidgety chestnut 
horse, with a side-saddle on, which was being led by a groom. 
Pauline looked up and bowed gravely; he returned the greeting. 

How handsome she looked! How well she sat her horse! How 
proud he might have been of her if she had never allowed the lust 
of 1 idles to crowd the womanliness out ol her heart! He leaned 
forward and watched her as far as he could see from the window. 

* * * * * * * 

An hour later Felling was stooping over his wife’s poor crushed 
body in one of the little chalets in the Bois de Boulogne. She had 
been thrown and trampled on, and was dying of internal hemor- 
rhage. Her voice was very low, and her words came slowly, with 
many pauses. 

“It is Heaven’s justice! After you had gone this morning, 1 
made up my mind to do as you wished. 1 thought 1 would try to 
love you — you were so good — and we should be— happy together. I 
had no right to be happy — after my wickedness, and Heaven bas- 
set tied it!” 

“ My poor mistaken girl!” 

“ Yes, that is true. I’ve been mistaken all— my life. No one 
ever-^tried to make me good. 1 was always left to servants — when 
1 was— a little child, and I learned evil— easily, 1 suppose. Heaven 
is just, and the great Judge will remember my — great temptations. 
Will you kiss me— just once, Alec? Say you forgive me— it will 
make my mind easier.” 

In spite of his efforts not to disturb her last moments by any show 
of feeling, a large tear dropped upon her face. 

She looKed at him wonderingly, and put up her finger to his 
cheek. 

“ For me,” she said very softly — “ you cry for me? 1 do not de- 
serve— to have one mourner — at my death-bed. 1 have done evil ta 
every one — but Jack. Give him 'toy — ” 

She stopped a moment, and a sharp spasm distorted her beautiful 
features. She spoke again ; but her voice was growing weaker. 

“ 1 will not — leave rnessages; tbe}^ might bring a curse.” 

Another spasm seized her; and, when it had passed, the hue of 
death was creeping over her face. It was all finished now, and the 
strong young life that had been so misused had come to an end. 

Felling took out a card, and left it with the people of the house, 
and then went straightway to see that all the necessary arrange- 
ments were made tor the interment of her who had once been very 
dear to him. 

He wrote a short letter to Sir Geoffrey that night. It ran: 

“ Dear Sir Geoffrey,— Your niece, my wife, was killed by a 
fall from her horse to-day. We were reconciled, at the last. Tell 
your daughter 1 can never express my gratitude to her for sending 
me here; it will always be a source of thankfulness in my heart. 


108 


A BITTER RECKOKING. 


The famil}’’ jewels are intact, Babette tells me, and they will be sent 
by special courier. When the tuneral is over, 1 think I shall join 
Dorn ton in Italy, and toward the spring we may work our way 
homeward in company. Ask Miss Ethel to keep us ever green in 
her memor 3 \ I’ve set my heart on seeing our young friend Jack a 
Royal Academician before many years. With his talent, he wants 
only a little judicious pushing, and 1 mean to devote my time to 
pushing him, 

“ Always your sincere friend, 

“Alexander Felling.” 

Ethel was greatly affected by this letter, and she went about with 
a very sober fare for some weeks, until the preparations for Christ- 
mas absorbed her, and left her no time for thinking of handsome 
young artists or anything else. But, even in the midst of the ex- 
citement of Chrisimastide, there was always a craving in her heart, 
a dreary sense of emptiness, which grew and grew until she was 
compelled, with many blushes, to admit its presence, and to ac- 
knowledge to herself that only one person in all the world could fill 
the void. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

I'he weeks slipped by, and the young spring began to send out its 
f 01 er tinners. It had been a mild winter, and the big horse-chest- 
nuts in the Mallingford woods sent forth their round pale buds 
quite a fortnight earlier than usual. 

To Ethel the air was full of sweet voices that whispered gently of 
coming happiness — tor were not the wanderers coming home when 
the hawthorn bloomed? With a shining joy in her eyes she went 
about among her father’s guests during those early spring days, and 
Sir Geoffrey smiled to himself as he remarked the change. He 
thought himself a shrewd observer, and fancied he had tound out 
the cause of her previous depression and her present content. 

A young fellow named Farringdon, the son of a friend of Sir 
Geoffrey’s youth, had been among the Christmas visitors at Malling- 
ford, and it was soon apparent that he had fallen desperately in love 
with sweet faced. Ethel. He was a most estimable young man, with 
a substantial rent-roll, and, knowing himself to be a desirable 
he went to Sir Geoffrey and asked his consent, feeling quite satis- 
fied as to what would be the result. 

Then Sir Geoffrey spoke to Ethel, and was astonished on receiv- 
ing an emphatic refusal, coupled with the declaration that her heart 
was not her own to bestow. So, Sir Geoffrey, bearing in mind the 
girl’s happy excitement over Felling’s letters, which contained 
nothing but accounts of Dornton’s industry, talent, and success, 
put two and two together, and decided that she was still true to her 
first love. He was a little disappointed that it should be so; but he 
had married for. love himself, and he was not going to attempt to 
infiuence his daughter in the selection of her husband. 

So a warm invitation was sent to the roaming artists, and Ethel 


A BITTER RECKON^ING. 


109 


Settled down into a beatific state ot anticipation; and one soft spring 
day toward the end ot April they arrived. 

early all Sir Geoffrey’s neighbors were in London by this time, 
and Ethel had been rather puzzled as to how she should provide a 
party to meet the two men; but her father put an end to her per- 
plexity by desirin^r her to entertain them strictly en famille. 

“ We can have one or two dinners, if you like, during their slay,” 
he said ; ” but 1 should prefer you not to fill the house with ordinary 
society visitors. You see, they both knew us in our poverty, and I 
should like to enjoy their society without the restraint of strangers’ 
presence.” 

Sir Geoffrey actually drove over himself to meet them, and Etliel 
put on her prettiest hat and accompanied him. She did not go on 
the platform with her father, but sat waiting in the carriage. Her 
heart fluttered a good deal as she sat there watching the few passen- 
gers pass by ones and twos through the little station-door. She 
wondered what could be keeping them. 

At last her father came out, and with him a handsome sun- 
burnt, broad-shouldered, bearded giant, whom Ethel regarded with 
no little surprise. Could this self-possessed, courteous creature 
be Jack — her Jack, whom she used to chide sometimes fbr his little 
mistakes, who had often confess«ed that he owed what little polish 
he had to his intercourse with her and her father? She was so 
astonished at the change in the man and his manners that some of 
her feeling found its way into her face. 

An amused look stole into his eyes as he stood bare-headed wait- 
ing until she should offer her hand. Ethel caught the twinkle and 
its meaning, and blushed. 

” How changed you are!” she had almost said “improved.” 
“ You look as if you had enjoyed your winter very much.” 

“ 1 haye; but 1 hope to enjoy my spring better. ” 

Something in the words jarred on Ethel’s nice sense of tact. She 
glanced quickly at him, blushed again, and changed the subject. 

“ AV here’s Captain Felling, papa?” 

That gentleman stepped forward from behind the pillar of the 
portico, where, with a strange longing, he had stood watching the 
eloquent little pantomime ot blushes and glances that had just 
tak«m place. 

The girl looked at him for a moment in even greater surprise than 
she had at Jack. She grew very pale, then extended both hands 
quickly. 

“ 1 am so glad to see you again,” she said, “ though 1 am sorry 
to see you looking so tired. 1 don.’t think traveling agrees with you. 
You must stay at Mallingford, and be nursed until you are quite 
well.” 

A dusky red — called up perhaps by the warmth of her greeting — 
suddenly spread over his face, then left it again as colorless as be- 
fore. 

“ 1 am all right,” he returned, smiling at the anxious look in her 
eyes. “ I’m as hard as nails; nothing ever ails me.” 

“ We won’t argue the question now,” she said, with her usual 
brightness. “ Are all your belongings right? Let us get home 


110 


A BITTER RECKONING. 


then, and have some luncheon ; I am absolutely famished. Come, 
papa/’ 

The three men took their seats in the roomy barouche, and the talk 
became general. Ethel, leaning back in her corner, and taking 
mental note of the trouble and sufiering written so unmistakably 
on Felling’s face, did not notice that she in turn was being 
watched as closely by some one else, who, by the end of the five-mile 
drive, had come to the conclusion that lie had been decoyed to Mai- 
Jingford under false pretenses, and had made up his mind to take 
the first opportunity of ascertaining the truth from her own lips. 
But the opportunity did not present itself so readily as he had hoped, 
and three days passed without a chance of a iete-d4ete. On the 
fourth, however, things changed. It w^as the day of the private 
view at the Academy. Of course Sir Geoffrey, by the right of his 
old associations, had the entree ; so equally, of course, had Jack a& 
an exhibitor. 

The rooms were, as usual, crowded to excess. Jack and Sir 
Geoflrey Were in front, and Ethel was with Felling. Jack turned 
suddenly, with his face aglow and his eyes shining, and said, in a 
proud whisper; 

“ By Jove, Felling, it’s on the line!” 

Felling pressed forward and shook him steal thil}’' by the hand. 
Ethel saw the movement and for a moment wished she was a man 
to inspire such a friendship as existed between these two; then she 
offered her congratulations w^armly and sincerely. 

The other two passed on, leaving Ethel with Jack to take note of 
the points of the picture. Jack, seizing the opportunity, bent his 
head and whispered: 

” Do 5^ou remember my water-color of last year?” 

” To be sure,” she answered, without any sign beyond a slight 
increase of color that the memory was a disquieting one. 

‘‘ Plow much has happened since then that 1 could wish undone!’* 

“And 1, also.” 

“ Do you mean that!” 

“Why should I say it unless 1 did?” 

Jack looked excited. It was an awkward place to make an 
avowal of love, certainly, but he would not lose the opportunity she 
had given him. Pie leaned forward and pointed out some flaw in a 
picture before them, without in the least knowing what he was say- 
ing, then whispered close to her ear: 

“ And do you really love me still? And may 1 try to repair my 
past folly by loving you more than ever?*’ 


CHAFTER XXV. 

“ Do you love me still? Will you let me repair my past folly?” 
again Jack whispered. 

Ethel’s answer completely staggered him. 

” There are two questions, and they require two answ^ers,” she 
replied, in a low steady voice. “I do not love you still— not as I 
did then. And, in my opinion, nothing could repair your past 


A BITTER RECKONIXG. 


Ill 


folly. Weakness and faithlessness are just the two failings 1 could 
never excuse in a man. They are so supremely feminine!” 

Jack straightened himself rigidly. 

“ I have Deen misled/’ he said, shortly. 

“Not by me, directly or indirectly.” 

“ Was it not in deference to your wish that Sir Geoffrey invited 
me to Mallingford?” 

“ Certainly. But may not a young woman wish to see a young 
man in whom she takes a very warm friendly interest, without the 
young man repaying her by an offer of marriage? Come — let us be 
friends — the very best of friends. You are not madly in love with 
me, you kn'ow. It was as much pity for m}^ supposed love-lorn 
state as anything that led you to make this declaration. Now that 
you see 1 am not love-lorn, and you have done your duty by me in 
giving me the chance you thought 1 was pining for, there is an end 
of ir.” 

“ I don’t understand you one bit.” 

“ Of course not. We women pride ourselves on not being under- 
stood. It is the only defense we have, the power of hiding our feel- 
ings. Come— let us find papa, and we will forget all about this 
foolish talk, and be just as comfortable togethei as we were be- 
fore. ’ ' 

Jack obej^ed rather surlily. It was a change for him to be treated 
in this light off-hand way by Ethel, after he had been taught to be- 
lieve that it was his bounden duty to rescue her from the slough of 
slighted affections. But, though he was really very fond of her, 
iind would doubtless have made her an excellent husband, his pride 
was more deeply touched than his feelings by her refusal, so there 
was plenty of room for hope that he would quickly recover from 
the blow^ 

Ethel made her way in and out among the well-dressed crowd, in 
search of her father. She was a little, just a very little, elated at 
the course things had taken. It W'as only natural that she should 
en^oy giving Jack “tit” for his “tat,” though she w^ould have 
avoided doing it if she could; however, she could not blame herself 
in an.y degree, and for the life of her she could not help feeling a 
little pardonable triumph — more especiall)^ as she divined rightly 
the depth of his devotion apd guessed he would soon solace himself 
elsewhere. 

She trembled a little as she remembered the close confidence exist- 
ing between Jack and Felling. She knew Jack would tell his 
frier d all before he slept tliat night, and she wondered what would 
happen then. If, after all, Alec had ceased to love her! The thought 
was too distressing; so she put it from her resolutely, and tried, 
with a certain amount of success, to keep her thoughts on other 
subjects. 

Felling,, looking at them when they at last met, guessed that 
something had taken place. He could see their evident flurry, but 
he could not tell how matters had fared with Jack. He believed 
them to be favorable. If it should prove so, his task would be 
finished; he would have reunited Ethel to the onlj^ man she could 
ever care for, and he would drown his own heart-griefs in the ex- 
citement of foreign travel. 


112 


A BITTER RECKO^S^IXG. 

The men lingered longer than usual in the dining-room that even- 
ing, and Ethel found the time hang heavy on jiev hands. Presently 
she heard the footsteps of the three cross the hall in the direction of 
the billiard-room, and she was surprised that they had not asked 
lier to mark for them. She felt nervous and anxious, and was tired 
of being alone. With this feeling upon her, she decided to get a 
book, and for a time at least forget the thoughts which oppressed 
her. 

She went to the library and wheeled the steps to a certain shelf 
that held the works of her favorite authors. There was only one 
lamp in the large room, but there was a large fire burning in the 
grate. She was wearing a ruby-colored velvet dress, buttoned up to 
the throat with large cut-steel buttons that glimmered and sparkled 
coldly from their warm setting. It was made, in defiance of fash- 
ion’s stern rule, without frill or puflfing and fell gracefully and 
softly about her shapely figure. W^hen she had reached the top of 
the library steps, the room door opened, and Capt. Felling entered. 
He began to pace in decided agitation up and down the dimly 
lighted room. Ethel, turning round hastily and seeing who it was, 
uttered a little exclamation of dismay. 

Miss Ethel! 1 did not see you. Looking for a book? Aren’t you 
afraid of falling? Come down and let me get it for you.” He was 
at the foot of the steps, his hand outstretched to help her. 

“ I’m not at all afraid, thank you; and 1 have not decided on a 
book yet.” 

This was not quite true — for she was a litlle afraid, although not 
of the steps. She saw even in the dim light a look in his eyes 
which told of a newly born hope in his heart; and, though she had 
been longing for the last four months to hear this man tell her he 
loved her, now that she felt the moment for the avowal was come^ 
she wished to put it oft. 

” Won’t you do without your novel-reading to-night and let me 
tell you a tale instead?” 

Her heart went out to him as she detected a quiver of painful 
anxiety in his voice. 

‘‘ If it is a nice tale and ends happily,” she answered. ” 1 like all 
tales to end happily. Does yours?” 

‘‘ It depends on what you consider happiness; what to you may 
seem happiness may to me be the depth of despair. Will you come 
down and listen^” 

Ethel descended from her perch and took the chair he had set for 
her, he seating himself opposite. 

” It is a very short story,” he began, as he turned up the lamp 
and stirred the fire. Then be went on — ” Once on a lime two men 
loved one woman. They both loved her very dearly, but of course 
they could not both marry her. Now it happened that the one she 
loved oftended her very grievously, aud the one that she did not 
love tried to ingratiate himself through the favored one’s offense. 
But the cause of offense was suddenly removed, and then the un- 
loved one said to himself, * Her heart is bound up in this man: she 
■will never know happiness, but as his wife; she does not love me. 
1 will devote my life to making her happy by bringing them to- 
gether.’ Well, lie did. lie helped the favored man to make him 


A BITTER RECKONING. 


113 


more worthy of her. It was the one dream, tlie one ambition of liis 
life, to see them united. Of course there were times when he felt 
still that he could never know happiness without her himself, fle 
was a selfish beggar at the best; but he really did do all he could 
for the man she loved. Imagine then his astonishment when the 
man whom he had thought she loved came to him one day and 
said, ‘ It has been all a mistake on your part: she does not care for 
me at all.’ Think what a disappointment it was to the poor wretch 
who had been working to bring them together at the sacrifice of his 
own feelings! When he had recovered from the fiist pang of dis- 
appointment, he began to wonder what her refusal meant, and a 
sudden mad thought came into his head. It was a wild, improba- 
ble, unreasonable thought. There were no grounds for it— in fact, 
all things seemed to point in an opposite direction. Sti'il the 
thought was in his mind. Shall I tell you whai that thought 
was?” He paused for a moment at this point, and then, moving 
nearer to her, went on. "He thought that, perhaps, in the great 
tenderness of her heart, this woman had at first pitied him for a 
certain unhappiness that clouded his life for a time, that possibly 
she had overrated his efforts on her behalf, and that, between her 
feelings of pity and gratitude, she was carried a little out of herself 
and imagined she ought, as a matter of duty, you know, to marry 
the man she did not really love. Then he said, ‘ This must not be; 
1 will go and set her mind at rest, and tell her not to worry about 
me. I shall be all right by and by, and shall learn in time to be 
contented without her.’ ” 

Again he stopped. Ethel was looking steadily at the fire; but she 
did not remove her gaze as she asked : 

And did he go?” 

” Yes: he went.” 

” And what did the woman say?” 

” Ah, that is more than 1 can tell at present!” 

You don’t know the end of the story?” 

“ No; 1 have come to ask you to finish it for me.” 

” 1 see;” with a smile. ” This is how 1 should finish it. The 
humble-minded man, who did not think it possible that he could 
be loved for himself alone, went to the woman and told her he 
should learn to be contented without her in time, upon which the 
woman rose up and held out her hands, saying, ‘ Bui I can never 
learn to be contented without you, Alec, for 1 love you very, very 
dearly!* ” 

A faint little whisper that sounded like. ” My own, own love!” 
floated through the room; and Captain Felling and Ethel Mailing 
were locked in a close embrace. 

******* 

” It is very dreadful to have to say it; but 1 think 1 began to love 
you just when it was wrong to do so— on the day you came to tell me 
you had discovered your wife was living. Then came that unhappy 
time, and the letters written in Jack’s behalf really helped yourself. 
At last, when 1 saw you so ill and sorrowful-looking, my heart 
went out to you.” 

” This will be an awful blow tp Jack!” 


114 


A BITTER R ECKOXIJS^ Ct. 


“ Never mind Jack now. Your kindness has made him think 
himself a paragon. 1 think it will do him good to find out that he 
is not so irresistible as he fancied himself.” 

Presently, after some further conversation, Ethel said: 

” Papa will wonder what has become of us. We had better go 
and tell him everything. He will be so pleased.” 

” Do 3 mu think so?” Pelling asked, doubtfully; and Ethel, 
throwing her arms about his neck, answered him with kisses. 

Of course Sir Geoffrey was delighted. As a man, he thought as 
highly of Capt. Pelling as of any"" one he knew. Besides, he had 
Undoubted advantages of birth and position, and would make an ex- 
cellent master of the household when the present possessor should 
have gone to his rest. 

Jack was inclined to be displeased at first; but it was character- 
istic of the facile nature of the man that he consented to be concili- 
ated, and stayed on right into the summer, making Mallingford his 
headquarters during his trips into the surrounding country to touch 
up from nature Lord Summers’ six pictures. And, as the days 
lengthened to their longest, Pelling gradually recovered much of 
his old brightness. Ethel was devoted to him, and there was no 
sense of shame in her love. 

Sometimes people, looking at her radiant young beauty and his 
grave maturity, wondered at the girl’s unconcealed devotion and 
admiration. One day some one ventured to say something of the 
kind to her. Her eyes flashed a little, as she answered: 

You don’t know him as he really is— if you did, you would not ' 
be surprised. ” 

Alec look her to Paris on their wedding-trip, and amid the gayeties 
of the city they did not forget one day to pay a visit to Pauline’s 
grave. Ethel placed a large wreath of immortelles on the resting- 
place of her unfortunate cousin, and turned away with a lump ris- 
ing in her throat. Husband and wife were both very silent on the 
way back to their hotel. Neither s^Doke of what was in their mind 
until after dinner, when Alec, putting his arm round Ethel, said, 
quietly: 

‘‘JMy great love for you came from the perfect truthfulness of 
your nature, little wife; if that poor girl had only been like you, 
she would probably have been a happy, honored wife to-day.” 

Ethel laid her head upon his shoulder; and though she agreed 
with her husband, she could hardly tell if she wished it had been so. 

They received one visitor before they passed on toward Italy — it 
was Babette, now Mme. Couronne, of the Boulevard des Italiens. 
She had invested her five thousand pounds judiciously, and was 
already becoming rather celebrated as one of the leading modistes of 
the city. She wished one piece of news to be conveyed to Sir 
Geoffrey. Messrs. Daws & Raven had made ” a flash in the pan ” 
with their two thousand five hundred pounds; they had speculated 
through a man who was ” hammered ” the very next settling-day, 
and so lost every penny. They had taken new offices and furnished 
them expensively, with the hope of increasing their business, so 
that, when the crash came, they were in a worse plight than ever. 

” They wanted me to join in the same speculation,” added Mme. 
Couronne, ” with the money your father had been so generous as to 


A BITTER RECKONING. 


115 


insist upon my accepting; but you have a proverb, ‘ A bird in the 
hand is worth two in the bush,' and 1 kept my money under my 
own management, as madame sees, with good result." 

******* 

Erect, white-haired Sir Geoffrey is never so happy as when he is 
walking out with toddling Geoffrey Mailing Felling, who is to carry 
on the old family name, by and by. Capt. Felling is a J. F., and 
everything else that a country .gentleman should be; and, in spite of 
the many calls on him, he is always able to spend plenty of time in 
his wife’s society. The pleasure these two find in each other’s 
society is as strong to-day as it was on their wedding-tour, and it is 
likely to increase rather than diminish, for it is a union founded on 
that most lasting of all foundations — a dsep mutual respect and an 
impregnable faith. 


THE END. 


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By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

401 Waverley. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

402 Lilliesleaf; or. Passages in the 

Life of Mrs. Margaret Mait- 
land of Sunnyside. By Mrs. 

Oliphant 20 

408 An English Squire. C. R. Cole- 
ridge 20 

404 In Durance Vile, and Other 
Stories. By “ The Duchess 10 


NO. price- 

405 My Friends and I. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 10 

406 The Merchant’s Clerk. By Sam- 

uel Warren 10 

407 Tylney Hall. By Thomas Hood 20 

408 Lester’s Secret. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 20 

409 Roy’s Wife. By G. J. Whyte- 

Melville 20 

410 Old Lady Mary, By Mrs. Oli- 

phant 10 

A Bitter Atonement. By Char- 
lotte M. Biaeme, author of 
“Dora Thorne” 20 

412 SomeOneElse. By B. ]\l. Croker 20 

413 Afloat and Ashore. By J. Feni- 

more Cooper 20 

414 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 

“Afloat and Ashore.”) By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

415 The Ways of the Hour. By J. 

Fenimore Cooper 20 

416 Jack Tier; or. The Florida Reef. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 ' 

417 The Fair Maid of Perth ; or, St. 

Valentine's Day. By Sir Wal- 
ter Scott 20 

418 St. Honan’s Well. By Sir Wal- 

ter Scott 20 

419 The Chainbearer : or. The Little- 

page Manuscripts. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

420 Satanstoe: or. The Littlepage 

Manuscripts. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

421 The Redskins; or, Indian and 

Injin. Being the conclusion 
of The Littlepage Manu- 
scripts. J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

422 Precaution. J.Fenimore Cooper 20 

423 The Sea-Lions; or, The Lost 

Sealers. J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

424 Mercedes of Castile; or. The 

Voyage to Cathay. By J. 
Fenimore Cooper 20 

425 The Oak Openings ; or. The Bee- 

Hunter. By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

426 Venus’s Doves. By Ida Ash- 
worth Taylor 20 

427 The Remarkable History of Sir 
Thomas Upmore, Bai t., M.P., 
formerly known as “ Tommy 

Upmore.” R. D. Blackmore. 20 

428 Z#ro : A Story of Monte Carlo. 

By Mrs. Campbell Praed 10 


MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 


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are for sale by all newsdealers, or w'ill be sent to any address, postage free, on 
receipt of 12 cents for single numbers, and 25 cents for double numbers, by the 
publisher. Parties ordering by mail will please order by numbers. 


MRS. ALEXANDER’S WORKS. 

30 Her Dearest Foe 20 

36 The Wooing O’t 20 

46 The Heritage of Langdale 20 

370 Ralph Wilton’s Weird 10 

400 Which Shall it Be? 20 

532 Maid, Wife, or Widow 10 

1231 The Freres 20 

1259 Valerie’s Fate 10 

1391 Look Before You Leap 20 

1502 The Australian Aunt 10 

1595 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

1721 The Executor 20 

1934 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. 10 

WIILIAM BLACK’S WORKS. 

13 A Princess of Thule 20 

28 A Daughter of Heth 10 

47 In Silk Attire 10 

48 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton 10 

51 Kilmeny 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Ordinary Edition. 


53 The Monarch of Mincing Lane 10 

79 Madcap Violet (small type) 10 

604 Madcap Violet (large type) 20 

242 The Three Feathers 10 

390 The Marriage of Moira Fergus, and The Maid of Killeena. 10 

417 Macleod of Dare 20 

451 Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart.. 10 

568 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 10 

816 White Wings; A Yachting Romance 10 

826 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

950 Sunrise: A Story of These Times 20 

1025 The Pupil of Aurelius 10 

1032 That Beautiful Wretch 10 

1161 The Four MacNicols. 10 

1264 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., in the Highlands 10 

1429 An Adventure in Thule. A Story for Young People 10 

1556 Shandon Bells 20 

1683 Yolande 20 

1893 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love Affairs and other Advent- 
ures 20 

MISS M. E. BRA.DDON^S WORKS. 

26 Aurora Floyd 20 

69 To the Bitter End 20^ 

89 The Levels of Arden 20 

95 ‘Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

109 Eleanor’s Victory 20 

114 Darrell Markham 10 

140 The Lady Lisle 10 

171 Hostages to Fortune 20 

190 Henry Dunbar 20 

215 Birds of Prey 20 

235 An Open Verdict . 20 

251 Lady Audley’s Secret 20 

254 The Octoroon 10 

260 Charlotte’s Inheritance 20 

287 Leighton Grange 10 

295 Lost for Love 20 

322 Dead-Sea Fruit !. 20 

459 The Doctor’s Wife 20 

469 Rupert Godwin 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBBARY, — Ch'dinary Edition. 


481 Vixen .* 20 

482 The Cloven Foot 20 

500 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter 20 

519 Weavers and Weft 10 

525 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 

539 A Strange World 20 

550 Fenton’s Quest : 20 

562 John Marchmont’s Legacy 20 

572 The Lady’s Mile 20 

579 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

■ 581 Only a Woman (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

019 Taken at the Flood 20 

041 Only a Clod 20 

049 Publicans and Sinners ^ 20 

056 George Caulfield’s Journey 10 

065 The Shadow in the Corner 10 

066 Bound to John Company; or, Robert Ainsleigh 20 

701 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery 20 

705 Put to the Test (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

734 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daughter. Part 1 20 

,734 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daughter. Part II 20 

811 Dudley Carleon : 10 

828 The Fatal Marriage 10 

837 Just as I Am; or, A Living Lie 20 

942 Asphodel 20 

1154 The Mistletoe Bough 20 

1265 Mount Royal '20 

1469 Flower and Weed 10 

1653 The Golden Calf 20 

1638 A Hasty Marriage (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

1715 Phantom Fortune 20 

1736 Under the Red Flag 10 

1877 An Ishmaelite 20 

1915 The Mistletoe Bough. Christmas, 1884 (Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon) 20 

CHARLOTTE, EMILY, AND ANNE BRONTE’S WORKS. 

3 Jane Eyre (in small type) 10 

396 Jane Eyre (in bold, handsome type) 20 

162 Shirley 20 

311 The Professor 10 


TEE SEASIDE LIBRAE Y. — Ordinary Edition. 


329 Wuthering Heights 10 

438 Villette 20 

967 The Tenant of Wildfell Hall 20 

1098 Agnes Grey 20 

LUCY RANDALL COMFORT’S WORKS. 

495 Claire’s Love-Life 10 

552 Love at Saratoga 20 

672 Eve, The Factory Girl 20 

716 Black Bell 20 

854 Corisande ‘ 30 

907 Three Sewing Girls 20 

1019 His First Love 20 

1133 Nina; or, The Mystery of Love 20 

1192 Vendetta; or, The Southern Heiress •. 20 

1254 Wild and Wilful * 20 

1533 Elfrida; or, A Young Girl’s Love-Story 20 

1709 Love and Jealousy (illustrated) 20 

1810 Married for Money (illustrated) 20 

1829 Only Mattie Garland 20 

1830 Lottie and Victorine ; or, Working their Own Way 20 

1834 Jewel, the Heiress. A Girl’s Love Story. . ; 20 

1861 Love at Long Branch; or, Inez Merivale’s Fortunes 20 

WILKIE COLLINS’ WORKS. 

10 The Woman in White 20 

14 The Dead Secret 20 

22 Man and Wife 20 

32 The Queen of Hearts 20 

38 Antonina 20 

42 Hide-and-Seek 20 

76 The New Magdalen 10 

94 The Law and The Lady 20 

180 Armadale .' 20 

191 My Lady’s Money 10 

225 The Two Destinies ; 10 

250 No Name *20 

286 After Dark . 10 

409 The Haunted Hotel 10 

433 A Shocking Story 10 

487 A Rogue’s Life 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Ordinary Edition. 


551 The Yellow Mask 10 

583 Fallen Leaves 20 

€54 Poor Miss Finch 20 

675 The Moonstone 20 

696 Jezebel’s Daughter 2S 

713 The Captain’s Last Love 10 

721 Basil 20 

745 The Magic Spectacles 10 

905 Duel in Herne Wood 10 

928 Who Killed Zebedee? 10 

971 The Frozen Deep 10 

990 The Black Robe 20 

1164 Your Money or Your Life 10 

1544 Heart and Science. A Story of the Present Time 20 

1770 Love’s Random Shot 10 

1856 ‘a Say No” 20 

J. FENIMORE COOPER’S WORKS. 

222 Last of the Mohicans 20 

224 The Deerslayer 20 

226 The Pathfinder 20 

229 The Pioneers 20 

231 The Prairie 20 

233 The Pilot 20 

585 The Water- Witch 20 

590 The Two Admirals 20 

615 The Red Rover 20 

761 Wing-and-Wing. 20 

940 The Spy 20 

1066 The Wyandotte 20 

1257 Afloat and Ashore 20 

1262 Miles Wallingford (Sequel to Afloat and Ashore”) 20 

1569 The Headsman ; or. The Abbaye des Yignerons 20 

1605 The Monikins 20 

1661 The Heidenmauer; or, The Benedictines. A Legend of 

the Rhine 20 

1691 The Crater; or, Vulcan’s Peak. A Tale of the Pacific 20 

CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 

20 The Old Curiosity Shop 20 

100 A Tale of Two Cities. 20 

102 Hard Times 10 


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The Bazar Embroidery Supplements form an important part of the mag* 
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All household matters are fully and interestingly treated. Home infor- 
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Among its regular contributors are Mary Cecil Hay, “ The Duchess,” au- 
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LATEST ISSUES: 


378 Homeward Bound ; or, Tlie Chase. 

By J. Fenimore Coopei- 20 

379 Home as Found., (Sequel to “ Ilonip- 

ward Bound.”) By J. Fenimore 
Cooper 20 

380 Wyandotte; or. Tlie Hutted Knoll. 

By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

381 The Red Cardinal. By Frances Elliot 10 

382 Three Sisters; or. Sketches of a 

Hiprhly Orig;inal Family. By Elsa 
D’Esterre-Keelin^ 10 

383 Introduced to Society. By Hamilton 

Aid6 1C 

384 On Horseback Through Asia Minor. 

By Capt. Fred Burnaby 20 

385 The Headsman; or. The Abbaye des 

Vi}?nerons. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

386 Led Astray ; or, ” La Petite Comtesse.” 

By Octave P’euillet 10 

387 The Secret of the Cliffs. By Charlotte 

French 20 


388 Addie’s Husband ; or, Through Clouds 

to Sunshine. By the author of 
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389 Ichabod. By Bertha Thomas 10 

390 Mildred Trevanion. ” The Duchess” 10 

391 The Heart of Mid-Lothian. By Sir 

Walter Scott 20 

392 Peveril of the Peak. Sir Walter Scott 20 

393 The Pirate. Sir Walter Scott 20 

394 The Bravo. By J. Fenimore Cooper. 20 

395 The Archipelago on Fire. By Jules 

Verne 10 

396 Robert Ord’s Atonement. By Rosa 

Nouchette Carey 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln ; or, The Leagner of 

of Boston. By J. Fenimore Cooper 20 

398 Matt : A Tale of a Caravan. By Rob- 

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399 Miss Brown. By Vernon Lee 20 

43) A Bitter Reckoning. By the author 

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